


The green beyond

by bloodandpepper



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Anders is head over heels, Angst, Attempt at Humor, Blow Jobs, Canon Typical Violence, Drama and Angst, Emotional Baggage, Fenris isn't stupid, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Trust Issues, Unresolved Sexual Tension, blood a lot of blood, for both of them, heavy snark, just dense af, porn in later chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 17:44:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 83,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15491241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandpepper/pseuds/bloodandpepper
Summary: In hindsight, Fenris wasn't sure why he'd let himself be spurred into that damn project  - and by Anders of all people. Growing a plant shouldn't be a big deal, except that it kinda was: It brought into focus the many, many things that went wrong in his life. But he was free now, had overcome everything thrown in his way.  Maybe it was due to the fact that Kirkwall was such an epic mess, but his best laid plans weren't exactly turning out as intended.And his strange, botanical project was only the beginning, as everything spiraled down the maelstrom of events that would tie him together with the mage far beyond everything he could've ever imagined in his wildest dreams.





	1. sadness and sarcasm

_Do you really think that’s wise, my friend?_

Anders wouldn’t consider his current course of action something that should be labeled ‘wise’, as he gathered the last of his magic’s reserves around him like a tide that rose from the depths of an ocean. Frankly, his options were rather limited right now, so he decided not to start an argument with the spirit about the nature of his battle strategies.

Furthermore, he would’ve sworn that the way the word was stretched out indicated something akin to sarcasm - even though he was sure that Justice failed to grasp the basic concept of such type of human interaction.

_You are bleeding, Anders._

Yes, he was, quite profoundly to be precise, but that fact was not really at the forefront of his mind at the moment.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he was able to see Varric’s unmoving form lying on the packed dirt, barely breathing, his beloved crossbow long discarded. That fact alone would’ve been troubling enough, but a bit ahead to the right, Hawke was also desperately trying to get back up to his feet, one of his daggers clutched tightly in his left hand while the leaned heavily on the wall, his dark hair plastered to his skull by blood and sweat. Anders didn’t need to see his face to know that he was fighting with all of his might to stay conscious.

A battle cry snapped Anders’ gaze to the mouth of the cave where Fenris’ long blade cleaved one of his opponents in half with one powerful arc, before he spun on his axis to face the next. To an untrained eye, his movements appeared to be graceful - effortless even - , but he knew better. Fenris was dead tired and there had to be something very wrong with his sword arm, - if the lack of precision and the choppiness of his down strokes were any indication. It was pure and utter defiance that kept the elf upright by now, Anders was quite sure. At least the elf had the undivided attention of their enemies, and that in itself proved to be a blessing as it distracted them from their fallen friends.

Anders felt dread settling low in his stomach. They were fighting a losing battle.

It was situations like this, he hated from the bottom of his heart: situations where he had to retreat to fundamental triage and make equations: Who of his companions would be most likely to benefit from his dwindling mana reserves? Who would be able to survive without his care? Who would surely die without? Should he focus on the lone warrior still standing, or spread his spell to all of them? Such simple questions with such horrible outcomes: in order to keep one on his feet, the others were doomed to die if things escalated any further. For a moment, he even considered giving up his spot as the defender in the back row and joining Fenris in one last, combined attack, but he wasn’t a warrior - a battle mage, yes, but that role held another meaning.

Anders had played many different roles throughout his life, but they all narrowed down to the one that outshone all others in the end: he was a healer through and through. He wouldn’t let his friends die as long as he still had a tiny bit of magic left to give.

That thought filled him with a calm that washed over him like the soothing currents of a river. He didn’t need to set up another equation; in fact, he was quite through with all these painful calculations.

_If you spend your last ounce of magic on healing, there won’t be any more left for you. You are bound to die, my friend. I won’t be able to save you._

‘ _And I will most likely perish some undefined time after you_ ’ hung in the air between them unspoken. A tired smile curved over Anders’ lips. Yes, he was well aware of that, and Justice’s sad tone made that fact hit home even harder. He briefly wondered what the spirit knew about sadness, but he pushed the thought aside. Now was not the time to think about that. Maybe the Maker would grant him another chance to ask Justice about sadness and sarcasm.

He’d lost his faith what felt like ages ago, but he decided to cling to that _maybe_ nonetheless.

Anders wasn’t keen on dying, and going down because of mana exhaustion didn’t sound appealing at all, but the tiny bit of left-over magic was already singing under his skin when he finally lifted his hands to channel it all into one, final spell.

The bright white healing aura flooded the cave in a glimmering cascade, and anyone who would’ve cared to pause and watch might’ve found it eerily beautiful, but apparently he himself was his only audience.   

He lost focus after that. Gravity pulled him in, tugged at his limbs until he was numb all over. Again, Fenris’ angry shouting echoed from the walls of the cave, his voice amplified by the low ceiling, while the metallic clang of the blade and the dying cries of his opponents served as an off-tune background orchestra. Anders couldn’t pinpoint the moment his eyesight started to fade out, but that distorted melody kept him company instead, connecting him with the invisible world around him. Wasn’t there this saying that the ability to hear was the one sense that stayed with the dying person the longest, while all others deserted them one after the other? How were living people supposed to know that? Did some ghoul tell someone ‘Oh, by the way, I kept on hearing stuff until I got stuck in the Fade!’? Or did some blood mages run a test series?

_Anders._

His spirit brought his mental rambling to a stop.

_The elf is fighting like a dwarven Berserker._

Too bad he wasn’t able to watch Fenris fight any longer. He wouldn’t admit this to one, living soul, but watching the warrior fight really was a spectacle, so Justice’s appraisal wasn’t that far off the truth – even if Fenris was rather tall for an elf, his raging defiance would be a solid basis for any Berserker ambitions. If Anders could’ve mustered the strength to form a lop-sided smile, Maker, he would have, but instead he felt coldness creep its way into his bones with long, icy tendrils.

He was glad that Fenris was going to make it. He’d overcome so many obstacles, and even if the two of them were polar opposites in almost anything they ever talked about, Anders hoped that the other would use his fucking stubbornness to find his way through life.

A shudder ran up his spine. Strange, he’d always thought his last thoughts to be about kind and caring Hawke with his warm brown eyes and wide smile, but here he was, reminiscing about Fenris’ almost-redeeming flaws in character. Good thing he’d lost his faith so long ago; the Maker must indeed be dead and gone if his death sequence featured the foul-tempered elf. Even stranger than that: he actually found comfort in it.

_You are like two sides on the same coin._

Anders would’ve loved to release his concentrated snark on his otherworldly companion if he wasn’t so damn tired. Instead, he resigned himself to a defeated mental sigh that lacked any real bite.

The chill that shook his body had reached his throat by now, and it was as if a cold hand closed in around his neck with steady, freezing fingers draining out whatever flicker of life still gleamed within him. He wasn’t nearly as defiant as Fenris; yet, Anders clawed to the last bits of his conscious mind with all he’d got. He thought about anything that had made his heart soar back when he first fled the circle: The open shoreline of the lake. The seemingly endless grain fields of the south. The sheer and unbelievable green of the wilds beyond.

It had been this very color that shook him to the bone back then: he was so used to the dull blues and greys, the browns and blacks of the circle’s tower, that the sheer intensity of gold and green made him tremble with want. Years later, Anders understood that he got the first taste of freedom in that very moment and it imprinted itself to his young mind like a stamp to hot wax. He’d never been able to forget.

His breath caught in his throat and, suddenly, the world became mute and silent as time began to stretch itself thin. Justice’s voice rang like the chime of a bell in his ears nonetheless.

_I do know about sadness, my friend. Like rage, it is something that defines us to the very bottom of what we both are._

He didn’t really felt the tear sliding down his cheek, but he knew it was there with the sureness of the inner eye that saw all and everything - in this world and the ones that only the Maker knew. He had doomed them both, but Justice’s words held no accusation. If anything they gave testament to the emotion the spirit claimed to know so intimately. Anders wanted to voice his sorrow, his regrets for failing them, but he was already gripped by the veil that separated reality from everything that lay beyond. Again, the colors of the wilds flashed through his mind and that age-old yearning rose from deep within anew.

He didn’t want to die, not now, not like that. He wanted to see these colors again. To prove to Fenris that he wasn’t the only one with a high level of pure stubbornness.

_Listen, Anders, listen closely. Can’t you hear it?_

He was trying his hardest to focus on the green that shone in his mind, so Justice’s inquiry seemed off, asking for something he was utterly unable to provide. But Anders knew his companion by heart and he wouldn’t voice a demand like that without reason.

So he took hold of his beloved, bright memory as best as he could and focused on _listening_. Time was still a fragile thing that had lost its frame and proper setting, but after what felt like eons, he heard a faint gurgling whisper – not unlike the flowing cadence of his own magic. A sound like water running over the pebbled ground of a clear stream. The more he tuned in, the more melodic it got. It gave him a new direction, and in a strange way, it accompanied the picture that was etched into his mind so long ago: they both began to merge, to form an anchor that grounded him in reality, and Anders let himself be held back.

_He sings. He sings, oh how he sings._

Justice’s words served as a refrain, though he seemed perfectly unaware of that. Anders felt the magnifying pull of the song almost bodily, the cold grip to his throat gone and forgotten as the sound dragged him on and on in a new way, to another aim and purpose. Caught up in a stream of waves and sound, he floated weightless for some time, cherishing the melody he was engulfed in. This wasn’t the Fade, but it wasn’t reality either. He settled for a world-in-between, where souls didn’t stay, but linger and wait.

The current got progressively stronger, and with it its song began to change. What was once a soothing murmur turned into a deep roar that pulled and tugged at the remainders of Anders’ being. He tried to resist the tide, but he got drawn in, first turning in circles, then thrown in somersaults. The moment he thought he wouldn’t be able to withstand the constant tearing any longer, he got hold of _something_. Gasping for air, he clawed harder, and, indeed, it felt like breaking the water’s surface with one forceful tug.

With the equilibrium came sudden silence.

His eyes snapped open of their own accord.

Over him, with pain etched into every crease of his features, Fenris crouched, holding his neck in an iron grip while his other hand splayed over his heart. The tips of the gauntlets were digging into his flesh, but Anders was still too numb to notice much. Wordlessly, he just stared up. Fenris’ eyes narrowed even further.

‘Damn you, mage.’

The words were spoken between gritted teeth, more a hiss than an actual utterance. Only then did Anders notice that his own right hand was firmly clasped around the other’s biceps, clinging to him as if he was his life line. Suddenly, the song was back, engulfing him in a new intensity, but now it was eerily clear where it was stemming from. The very thing that had kept him grounded to the living world had been the elf’s lyrium-fueled energy – and Anders had dined on it like a starving man on a four-course meal. That realization forced him to reel back as much as he could, letting go of Fenris’ arm as if burned, only to be crushed down again by the other’s hold on his torso.

‘Stay the fuck down,’ Fenris snarled, still seething with anger and pain.

Anders wanted to counter, to explain _, to soothe_ , but not a sound left his throat. He could only hope that his distress was visible in his gaze and that the elf would be able to pick up the unspoken apology there. Fenris was watching him closely, but whatever answer he might’ve found in his eyes, he kept it to himself as he slowly eased up his grip to sag back onto his haunches with an exhausted huff. Everything that remained of the song was a faint chime that pulsed through Anders’ bones like a distant echo. Along with being conscious again came the pain from his wounds, and he tried to summon his powers out of instinct to heal himself, only to come up with nothing but a shiver that wracked his whole body.

‘Stop that, you idiot.’

If Fenris would be in need of a middle-name, ‘imperative’ surely would be it. But given the fact that the elf didn’t know his real name, there probably was no use for it. What a shame.

The mouth of a flask was pressed to his lips, and the hand holding his neck was back again, this time supporting him to swallow whatever contents were swirling in the dust-covered bottle.

Fenris still looked as annoyed as before, but there was a small line in his furrowed brow that spoke of worry.

What a rare sight.

Anders opened his mouth without question and the liquid slid down his throat like nectar and ambrosia.

Elfroot. Healing potion. Good.

His higher brain functions were slowly starting to desert him in favor of sleep, and he was almost at the brink of slipping into the blessed darkness, when Justice’s voice pulled him back.

_What’s that thing you call sarcasm, my friend?_

Anders felt the corners of his mouth rise to form a wide smile.

It’s irony when the one person that loathes your very existence, drags you back to life despite it all.

 


	2. curiosity didn't kill the cat

‘Are you coming, Fenris?’

Hawke’s voice echoed through the narrow hallway that ran to unknown destinations at the back of the mage’s run-down clinic. Well, maybe not so unknown to the rogue, as he led the way with a clear aim in mind. Fenris merely grunted in answer, tagging along without much enthusiasm. Being close to the abomination always made his skin crawl, but Hawke insisted on a visit because the mage hadn’t answered his requests to accompany them since _the_ _incident_ a few weeks back. It was just bad luck that Fenris failed to excuse himself in time like the rest of their troupe after their return from their latest errant, so, here was, following the other deeper into the ramshackle building with a defeated sigh.

He treaded on molding floor boards, the air stale and hot. Soon sweat glued his bangs to his cheeks, to his forehead, while small rivulets ran down his spine. Even for Darktown, this place was unbearable. He almost bumped into Hawke the moment the other stopped in hesitation.

‘Damn, why does he have to hole up like that…,’ Hawke said, knocking on a door that sat askew in its frame.

‘Anders? Come on, it’s me!’

When he didn’t get any answer, he cracked the door open a bit, but only darkness and silence greeted them.

‘We’re wasting time, Hawke. He quite obviously isn’t…home.’ If that dump could be called like that. On the other hand: Who was he to berate the mage for his lack in interior design. Mummified corpses and bioluminescenting mushrooms were still part of his own ‘home’, so he swallowed down the petty remark lying on the tip of his tongue.

Hawke heaved a tired sigh, stemming his hands to his hips as he scowled at the ceiling. A sudden thought brightened up his features.

‘Wait, maybe he’s…’

He left the sentence unfinished, eyes alight with his sudden idea, turned on his heel, and headed straight for a spiral stair that looked absolutely untrustworthy in every regard. Hawke climbed up nonetheless, the whole structure creaking in protest under his weight. He cast an encouraging glace back down at the elf before he disappeared out of sight.

Fenris dimly wondered why he didn’t excuse himself right on the spot and take his leave back to Hightown. Out of this mess, and into fresh air and sunlight.

But.

A tiny, yet insistent voice in the back of this mind chirped in that he, too, wanted to know what was up with the infuriating mage. He associated many things with him, but ‘silence’ – and let alone silence for weeks – wasn’t one.

Curiosity killed the cat – or so was the saying. Fenris had no intention to be killed, but he had to admit that said curiosity indeed ate at his insides, as he took step after careful step. He braced himself when he swung the door open that previously had been falling closed behind Hawke.

In all honesty, he’d expected many things to be confronted with upon stepping through the door: demons and ghouls demanding his soul, dragons and evil spirits spitting fire and venom – and now that he thought about it, giant spiders wouldn’t have been unlikely too.

Instead, he stepped out onto a wide patio that opened to the seaside. A large tree overshadowed part of it, its roots breaking through the ground and the adjourning wall like dark fingers digging into earth. Sunflowers taller than him flanked the sides, and in between, patches of greenery in all varieties lifted their leaves and buds up to the sky, reaching for the sun that shone in a late afternoon glow. Fenris even recognized some of them due to their frequent assignments for the herbalist at the Gallows.

‘Your Embrium has seen better days, Anders,’ Hawke remarked with mirth in his voice, a few steps to his right.

‘Hm, it’s its second bloom. The flowers are smaller and fewer then. It’s hard to cultivate, I’m sure you’ve noticed.’ 

Sitting on a large boulder, Anders regarded Hawke with a small smile dancing around his lips. He was dressed down in a sleeveless tunic and his usual slacks. In the penumbra of the sunflowers, specks of light were playing in a red hue on his loose hair. Fenris was reminded of one of those big scenery paintings in his mansion – only so much more vibrant and alive. He was well aware of the mage’s aesthetics, but given the surroundings, he fit in, wholesome and so utterly _right:_ like a flower of his own, lanky and bright.

The moment Anders’ gaze wandered in his direction, his smile fell – and no power in the world would be able to fully explain why it hurt to see it gone. Fenris swallowed down that strange uneasiness and averted his eyes. He himself was the foreigner here, the very thing that didn’t belong to this sanctuary of light and colors. He felt his shoulders sag and he couldn’t help but ball his fists at his sides. To the Void, even his ears went into defense mode, drooping slightly.

It was Hawke who came to his aid.

‘ _We’ve_ been worried about you.’

Anders heaved a dry laugh. ‘No. _You_ have been worried about me.’

Out of the corner of his eyes, Fenris saw Hawke casting him a fast glance, waiting for…what? For him to interject? Not negate? Confirm? Maker, how he hated these social interactions, for they puzzled him to no end. Why had Hawke even dragged him up here?

Hawke grumbled something undiscernible into that beard of his, then leveled Anders with that trademark hard stare of his that didn’t allow opposition.

‘ _We_ ’ve been worried about you.’

Anders smile was back, wide and true as he shook his head in mute surrender.

‘Fine, whatever.’

Raking his hand through his blond mop of hair, he seemed to search for words that didn’t come easily. ‘I’m fine, Hawke,’ he simply said in the end, looking up to meet his eyes. ‘And I’m sorry I didn’t answer your requests. It took me some time to get back on my feet.’

‘That’s okay; I just wanted to make sure you’re still alive and kicking. You scared us quite a bit back then. We actually thought that we’d lost you.’ Hawke’s voice was thin and small at the end of his sentence. ‘Don’t pull a stunt like that again, promise.’  


Again, the mage had to shake his head. ‘You know I can’t, Hawke.’ Even the other’s steely stare wasn’t enough to make him give in. ‘Aw, come on, you know that I was a cat in one of my former lives. I just lost one out of nine with that so-called stunt. I’ve still got eight to spare!’

When Anders’ gaze landed on Fenris again, this time his smile didn’t vanish and he was grateful for that. Cocking his head to the side, the elf pondered his words, as the conversation between the two men moved on to Solivitus and his to-do-list of rare ingredients. Fenris retreated from their chat and took a stroll through the garden.

His feet carried him right under the large tree, as if lured in by a song of ancient magic. Maybe it was the elven side speaking up from somewhere deep inside, but he instantly took a liking to that tree. How was something so majestic even able to take root in so much decay and hard stone? Yet, here it was in all of its beauty. Instinctually, he reached out a hand to graze the tips of his gauntlets over the bark of the trunk in a mute greeting. He never bothered much about the alienage’s Vhenadal – pretty much the same way he didn’t spare much thought upon the lot of the city elves - but something about this tree was different in an unnamable way. He looked up, gazing through the branches and leaves, feeling rays of white sunlight tickle his skin.

Fenris wasn’t aware that at one point he must’ve closed his eyes, but when he blinked them open, the mage was standing there at a carefully measured distance, watching him with wonder in his gaze. The breeze let strands of hair dance around his face in harmony with the rustling foliage above them, and, again, Fenris was overtaken by this sense of wholesomeness – only this time, he was part of it. 

Taking a tentative step forwards, Anders raised his eyes to the crown of the tree. ‘Oaks can get to a thousand years old. I don’t know how old this fine specimen is exactly, but its 500 and more, for sure.’

The elf followed his gaze, strangely at ease.

‘How did it get here?’ he asked.

Anders shrugged. ‘I’ve got no idea, but given the fact that oaks aren’t planted all around Kirkwall and the nearest forest is miles away, my guess would be that someone left it here on purpose. Maybe the same person who laid the first stone to build this garden.’

Fenris’ head whipped around. ‘So it wasn’t you that set this up?’

A low chuckle answered him.

‘Your faith in my abilities flatters me, but I stumbled upon this little oasis by chance when I first crashed here in Darktown. It was neglected and over-grown, not in use for a long time, but the garden’s fundamental settings are old and deliberately planned; whoever did it had a deep knowledge about herbology and gardening. I just had to rekindle what lay dormant and bring it back to life again. To be honest, it’s one of the reasons I installed the clinic here. It provides a lot of basic equipment in the easiest way: I plant, it grows, I harvest. It’s as simple as that.’

Fenris’ gaze was lost in the mid-distance. ‘That’s something I would never be able to do.’ He hadn’t meant to say these words aloud, but apparently his tongue had other plans, and it was too late to take this small confession back.

‘What? Gardening?’ The puzzlement was evident on Anders’ face.

‘…growing something,’ the elf answered, almost inaudible.

‘Why wouldn’t you-‘

‘I can’t!’ Fenris had to cut him off before the mage could question him any further, crossing his arms in front of his chest as a barrier to hide behind. ‘I just…can’t. It’s not in my nature. I was created as a weapon that sows death. Nothing can grow from my hand. Nothing. What I touch is bound to wither. That’s just how things are.’ He had to force himself to stop his rambling. He’d already revealed too much of himself to be comfortable with – and to the possessed mage of all people.

Fenris felt the other’s gaze on him even though he kept his eyes trained on the ground. He didn’t dare to look up to find amusement – or worse, pity – written in the mage’s features. He braced himself for one of the other’s snide remarks that hit home with unerring accuracy; instead he heard not a single word, but some rustling. Again, curiosity got the better of him and he had to level his gaze.

Anders had raised his arm in a silent offering. In his open palm laid something small and green and it took Fenris a moment to identify the object as an acorn. There was neither amusement nor pity to be seen in the lines of his face. His warm, brown eyes sparkled with _challenge_.

‘Give it a try, elf.’

A tiny smile wormed its way to Fenris’ lips. Who was he to decline such defiance? Picking the seed up between thumb and forefinger, he inspected it from all sides.

‘Just put it into some soil. Water it when the soil gets too crumbly. Oaks are easy to sprout.’

Nodding in confirmation, he put the acorn into one of the side-pouches carefully.

‘…you know this has been the first civil conversation between us in like…ever?’ Anders remarked mischievously.

‘Then don’t blow it, mage.’

‘Hey, I’m trying!’

Fenris huffed in amusement. Yes, he was trying; they both were, for reasons that were beyond him, but whatever strange spell this garden might’ve cast upon the two of them, it brought out another side, another facet of them – and he still wasn’t sure what to make of it.

 _The two of them._ Realization crashed into his mind like a wrath demon.

‘Where’s Hawke?!’

The mage had the gall to look surprised. ‘Excused himself while you were napping under the tree. An hour or so ago.’

That didn’t make any sense. ‘I wasn’t napping!’ he snapped in growing irritation.

Anders raised his hands in defense. ‘Well, at least you were so out of it that you didn’t react to him calling you. He just let you be and took his leave. I only dared to speak to you when you finally opened your eyes again.’

Fenris’ frown deepened. Could it be that he’d been so immersed by this tree that he’d forgotten the world around him? That would’ve been completely unrealistic, yet somehow time seemed to have slipped by without him noticing it. No harm was done, but this occurrence left a stale taste in his mouth. Eying the treetop, he wondered if the feeling of harmony he had felt was what let time run by like the snap of one’s fingers. Whatever this garden was exactly – it clearly followed its own rules.

‘The last thing I remember is you telling Hawke something about _your_ _cat-lives_ ,’ he said, gesturing vaguely in the mage’s direction. ‘Whatever that is.’ His curiosity was back full-flagged.

‘Well, I always had this tendency to associate myself with felines. With their way of thinking, their traits, their appearance,’ Anders said. He wore a sheepish look that let the crow feet at the corners of his eyes deepen in good humor. 

The elf cocked his head to the side and took in the man in front of him as if seeing him for the first time: long and lean body, but with underlying musculature. Reddish-blond hair along with the human-male-typical dark hair sprouting in various places. Soft amber eyes that belied a stubborn mind. A strong sense of independence and egocentrism. A subtle handsomeness that didn’t rule out his dangerousness.

Fenris had to chuckle aloud. Why had he never noticed before?

‘Haha, what’s so funny?’ Anders asked, indignation reverberating in his voice.

‘No offense, mage, I just came to realize that, indeed, your likeness with an over-grown and spoiled house cat is more than striking.’

‘That’s quite an epiphany, isn’t it?’

‘Hmph, but I still don’t get why cats should possess more than one life.’

‘Nine to be precise; it’s kinda common knowledge that they have nine lives. It’s a legend, but a fitting one, because cats pull stunts like no other creature could.’

‘And your stunt back in the slaver cave cost you dearly.’

Anders’ face fell. ‘I would’ve been dead if it weren’t for you.’

‘Is that your way of saying ‘thank you’?’

‘…maybe.’

‘I guess I won’t ever get a clear answer from a cat.’

This time, Anders didn’t just smile; he was outright beaming at him, eyes alight with laughter.

‘Nope. Absolutely not.’

 


	3. wolves for the wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders is a petty bastard, I hope you all are well aware.

The elven girl looked at them with pleading eyes. ‘He didn’t want to hurt me, Serah! He said it was the demons who forced him to! Please don’t kill him, I beg you!’

Fenris’ jawline tightened with tension. Anders could see the pressure work in its hinge, then travel down the muscles of his throat, but otherwise he showed no sign of agitation – even his voice was the usual deep rumble when he addressed Hawke.

‘Her pity is admirable, yet misplaced,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t deserve her kindness.’

Beside him, Aveline nodded, her hand already resting upon the pommel of her sword. It had to be one of the Maker’s crueler jokes that the three of them were in complete agreement on something – especially if that something had to be a case of murder of innocent elven children.

Anders felt Justice stir again, almost dashing to the forefront of his mind.

_The murderer deserves death. He’s been spared for too long._

It was hard to rein in the spirit when his cause was so blatantly right and, well, _just_. Instead of giving in to Justice’s righteous anger, he skimmed over Lia with the briefest touch of healing magic. The girl hadn’t lied to them to shield her kidnapper; indeed, she was unharmed, though deeply troubled. The urge to shield and protect surged up from deep within, and once more, Anders was no longer able to distinguish where his own self ended and were Justice began.

‘Listen, Lia, I’m trying to show mercy, but I can’t make promises.’ Hawke pulled his best big-brother-voice in combination with folding his bulky frame down to her eyelevel in order to soothe the girl. ‘Your father is waiting for you just outside of the cave. We’ve cleared the way. Go.’

Casting one last glance at them over her narrow shoulder, she hurried off.

It was Aveline who took the lead down the hallway, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like ‘Let’s go and roast that bastard alive,’- but maybe he was hearing things. In the backlight of the lava that meandered along the path, Anders couldn’t decide what looked fiercer: her eyes that had turned slate-grey in rage, or the gleaming red of her hair. Both brought back the ancient stories of his childhood: the heavenly shield maiden that walked to war unafraid, her armor glistening in the firelight.

Hawke had to hurry to keep up with her long strides, while, strangely enough, Fenris fell in step right beside him, watching him out of the corner of his eye. Anders grew nervous under his gaze, his words bubbling up as a cover.

‘All of us want this guy thoroughly dead as soon as possible. And given Aveline’s mood, she’s in for the barbecue version of murder. For once we’re on the same page, aren’t we?’

The other cocked his head. ‘On which book?’

Anders almost stumbled, both with his words and his feet. Was the elf trying to joke? Actually trying to humor him? That would have been a pun Hawke would dash out after his third or fourth ale at the Hanged Man, but Fenris? No way in the Void. Except that the elf’s brow began to rise along with a quirk of his lips.

‘I’ve got you, mage: for once you are speechless. From now on I will think fondly of this fine day.’

Damn bastard.

Huffing in feigned indignation, Anders wasn’t fully able to get rid of the small smile that found its way onto his features. Sure, it was a joke at his expense, but coming from Fenris it could’ve come across cutting and demeaning. Instead it sported a teasing, good-natured quality – so very different from their usual jibes. Maybe if they somehow could manage to dodge all mage-related themes, they would actually be able to work out some semblance of a truce.

‘Hey, look what I’ve found!’

Hawke’s voice fished him out of his musings. They had rounded a corner and found their companions standing bent over a chest, its former contains strewn across the floor.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve found another pair of torn trousers,’ Anders said while inspecting the remains with the tip of his boot. ‘Jean-Luc only buys them because he likes to flirt with you.’

‘Your accusations wound me, my friend! Those were perfectly salvageable pieces of clothing! A treasure for every gifted tailor! And I wasn’t flirting…well, at least not more than usual…’

Fenris stepped up next to him, craning his neck to get a glimpse of what was laying inside the chest. ‘Your flirting _did_ get you a more than reasonable price,’ he said.

Hawke had the decency to look at least a tiny bit sheepish. ‘Whatever, I won’t sell what I’ve found right now, because it’s the perfect gift for you, Fenris.’ With that he produced a charm out of his sleeve and let it dangle in front of the elf’s face. The piece of jewelry itself was made from some lesser metal, yet it was finely chiseled and caught the light of the flames in the high-polished surface. But the moment Anders noticed its motif, he couldn’t help himself: he had to laugh aloud.

‘Wolves howling at the moon? That’s awfully cheesy, don’t you think?’ he asked, amusement still lacing his words.

Fenris’ sideways glance was murderous, but he didn’t spare him a single word when he took the item to inspect it closer. ‘It’s bestowed upon me, and I won’t decline a gift freely given with best intentions. Furthermore it is fitting given my name. ’

‘It’s a piece of kitsch.’

One day, his running mouth would be the end of him, Anders was well aware – that and the fact that he was unnecessarily petty. Hadn’t he dared to dream of some truce between them mere moments ago? He had utterly ruined another tentative attempt with his own brutish thoughtlessness.  

Taking a challenging step closer, Fenris glared daggers at him, his full lips an angry, tight line. For someone several inches smaller than Anders, he managed to look damn intimidating. Anders steeled himself for a frontal attack – either be it by words or by a lyrium-lined fist through his chest - but in the end he was left high and dry when the other just sneered in open disgust and spun on his axis to face Hawke again.

‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’

He fastened the chain around his neck and let the pendant disappear beneath armor and tunic. ’Come on, let’s find that Kelder bastard and get out of here.’

Hawke had watched their spat in tense silence, worry and annoyance clearly visible in his deep frown. Again, it was Aveline who strode past them, no less annoyed, but much more vocal in her disapproval.

‘You behave like children,’ she spat. ‘Like _spoilt_ children.’

‘I’m sorry, Mom.’

Anders’ voice was a mocking singsong, but, Maker help him, for the second time within five minutes he couldn’t help but be a literal pain in the ass. He’d managed to rile up both of their warriors in record time. That was quite some feat.

‘Anders…’ Hawke growled in warning.  

Aveline just huffed in disdain and hurried her steps to reach the staircase, Fenris hot on her heels.

‘Why do you have to be like that?’ Hawke words cut through the stretching silence.

‘What? Cunning and dashing?’

‘More like needlessly idiotic and borderline suicidal.’

‘But Aveline _is_ our acting Mom.’

‘And Fenris? He didn’t deserve your belittling words.’

Ouch.

That hurt and struck a chord in him that resonated through his very being. Suddenly, he remembered the song that dragged him back to life. Remembered how it had engulfed him, had made him _whole_. He owed Fenris his life, and all he ever did was nag and drag.

‘He deserves better,’ Anders said barely audible, eyes trained to the ground. He felt defeated by his own words. Raising his gaze to look at Hawke again, the irritation was evident on the other’s face as he struggled to put Anders’ admission in correlation to his contradicting behavior. They were no longer talking about the little charm that had led to this escalation that much was for sure.

‘He deserves so much better,’ Anders repeated as if to deepen the truth lying dormant in this little sentence.

Understanding flashed in Hawke’s soft brown eyes and he raised a hand to pat his shoulder, but before he was able to utter a single word, shouts and screams echoed down the staircase where their warriors had disappeared only a few moments ago.

Out of instinct, they both fell into step in perfect synchronization, heading to battle with weapons drawn.

‘What a nice assortment of pests,’ Hawke deadpanned upon seeing the room filled to the brim with giant spiders, walking skeletons and some rage demons. He went into stealth-mode immediately and Anders was fast to cast his favorite ice spell to get the rage demons off of Aveline’s back. They’d clearly learned from their last nearly fatal mishap in the slaver cave: their coordination had improved as well as their individual skills. The only true challenge proved to be the arcane horror that materialized from one second to the next, but Anders snuffed out its spell using a mana-draining attack that worked far better than expected. Without its magic the creature was easy prey for their warriors, who slashed and hacked it to pieces with a few strikes.  

‘Well, that worked out quite nicely. Good job, all of you,’ Hawke said while he wiped the sweat off his brow. ‘This time, we aren’t in need of a special rescue mission to save our loud-mouthed mage.’

Anders heart sank to the deepest pits of his stomach when Fenris stared at him still seething with barely contained rage. Even if he would be in need of said rescue, he highly doubted the warrior would be inclined to save him again this time.

He’d fucked up for real.

Feeling all eyes on him, Anders wasn’t able to face them. Joking his uneasiness away had turned things for the worse, so he decided to keep his mouth shut for once. He secured his staff to his back and entered the hallway ahead of them.

He was only able to take a few steps before he stumbled upon the very person they were in search of: the man was crouching behind a pillar and started to lament his poor fate the moment he got a chance to do so. He babbled on about his death wish and the demons that supposedly made him torment all those children. Even though Hawke stepped up to take over his interrogation, Anders felt his pent-up anger mingle with his revulsion for the atrocities that man had committed, channeling them down on the pathetic creature in front of him.

‘Mages are suffering enough without people like you, who worsen their situation even more,’ he spat, but voicing his disgust aloud didn’t lessen his rage. He wasn’t sure if the words that growled in his mind belonged to Justice anymore, because their timbre was way too deep, their tone too cruel, forming a never-ending mantra that blocked out the world around him.

_Kill him. He doesn’t deserve to live. Kill him._

Anders had already reached for his staff when Fenris took a step in front of him. Confusion replaced the anger in the elf’s eyes as his gaze swept over Anders briefly. Was he able to pick up Justice’s words? Maybe even notice their change in character? Anders could only wonder, but the other’s interference shook him out of his trance, even though the words that were being spoken around him still barely registered. What had happened to Justice to let him go off the rails like that?

He flinched and waited for the pain to hit him when Fenris’ lyrium marks activated, but instead, the sharp gauntlets tore through the murderer’s chest in one fluid motion. For a fraction of a second, his body dangled in the air like a broken doll before it was thrown to the ground with a heavy thud. Kelder took a last breath, but his murmured words were soundless, as if the Void itself had sucked them from his lips to save the world from further lies.

Standing over the corpse, Fenris never resembled his namesake more: the godly wolf hovering over its prey, fangs still red with blood.

The picture instilled a bone-deep terror in Anders, but at the same time, something akin to excitement ran down his spine to burn hot between his legs.

In the lyrium light of the room, he noticed that the charm had found its way out of the layers of clothes, resting against the elf’s breast plate in stark contrast. The wolves shone like liquid silver, and with every intake of air, they moved along with their wearer. Mesmerized by the sight, Anders stood frozen to the spot. He didn’t recognize his own voice in the beginning, and his lips moved out of their own accord.

‘I was mistaken. The charm is indeed made for you: wolves for the wolf.’

Fenris blinked in surprise, then took a step in his direction in order to level him with his best measuring glare.

‘That’s an apology,’ he said, more to himself than to anyone else. ‘This is truly a day to remember.’

Maybe a truce could be started with a little, yet honest admission.

‘It is,’ Anders said, well aware that his ambivalent statement applied to both of Fenris’ sentences: Yes, it was an apology, and, yes, this truly was a day to remember.

This time, Fenris took the lead, and Anders fell in step right next to him. Unseen by both of them, Aveline and Hawke exchanged a look of pure incredulousness, before they followed them in silence.

 


	4. speaking of pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for brief suicidal thoughts, nothing serious though.

Sparks danced in the chilly air as Fenris rekindled the small fire that had burnt down almost to embers. The flames licked hungrily at the new timber and soon the campsite shone in a soft golden glow again. There was something primal in sitting by the fire and nurturing the flame. It didn’t matter if the person doing so was an elf, human or dwarf; they carried this simple task deep in their blood and it filled them all with comfort.

It was true; the rhythmic sway of the flames soothed away the pains of the day at least a little bit. The spear wound in his lower back was still newly healed scar tissue, and it tore and itched with every movement, but focusing on the warmth let it subside to a dull throb. Damn those Tal-Vashoth and their monstrous weapons.

 

Fenris definitely knew how to handle constant pain – and tuning it out was essential to let him function on a daily basis – but on top of the injury in his back, he over-did it in general today. He’d drawn too much power from his brands to fuel his strikes in battle. If he watched closely, he could still see the small tremors that shook his hands, but he wasn’t able to stop them.

 

Most of the time, some breathing exercises would rein in the ache to a bearable level, but tonight nothing brought him relief except the heat in front of him. He crouched as close to the flame as he dared to, his armor lying discarded behind him. The glow of the fire pulsed along his bare arms and he closed his eyes as he tried to channel the heat to his aching lyrium marks. A pained groan escaped him through clenched teeth when his attempts turned out to be in vain.  It was in times like this he wished for the pain to just _end_ , no matter how. He shied away from the final consequences of that thought as soon as it made room in his mind, but it didn’t change the fact that it intruded up in the first place.

 

‘If you’ll get any closer, you’ll catch fire.’ 

 

Speaking of pains.

 

Fenris didn’t need to open his eyes to see the abomination standing by the fire, his trademark lopsided grin plastered on his face.

 

Except…somehow, the intonation of his voice sounded off; it lacked its usual bite and forced cheerfulness. But on the other hand, a lot of things seemed to be _off_ with the mage recently. He highly doubted that there existed something like a ‘normal status’ when one was possessed by a spirit of justice, yet the man’s actions grew increasingly unpredictable since he’d been dragged back from the brink of death. Fenris could be mistaken, but if he hadn’t stepped up to kill off Kelder, Anders would have been the one to do it. The mage might be many, many things, but he was not a killer. Normally, he wouldn’t kill someone in cold blood even if his victim was a murderer that deserved his fate. Something had changed and Fenris dreaded getting to know the nature and extent of that change, for it surely had to involve him sooner or later. He vowed to himself that if the mage were to cross the line and become a true abomination, he wouldn’t hesitate to strike him down.

 

Blinking his eyes open, he took in the other who’d sat himself down across the fireside. Anders lacked his usual feathery attire; instead, he had gathered his worn sleeping plaid around him like an ill-colored cocoon. His hair was down in messy strands that clung to his high forehead and cheeks. The fire cast shadows upon his features that flickered in sharp contrast over his pale skin.

 

He wondered how old the mage might be. On a good day like back on the sun-flooded patio, he appeared to be no older than 26 or 27, but now? He looked like he’d aged a dozen years all of a sudden. The lines on his face spoke of deep troubles and a painful past. Maybe Fenris himself looked pretty much the same right now.

 

The other cleared his throat, and Fenris became aware that he’d been staring.

 

‘Is the spear wound still giving you trouble? I’d thought that I’ve been able to heal it properly.’

 

‘No. It’s not that, it’s…’

 

Fenris had to halt his words. No, it definitely wasn’t the injury in his back. No, it was…he’d never bothered to describe it before. It was his constant state of being, his painful modus operandi that he had to live with day in, day out, since his master forced these brands on him. How could the mage possibly be able to grasp the extent of what he had to endure?

 

Anders soft voice brought him back to present. ‘You’re in pain. Severe pain.’

 

The mage’s gaze was focused on his hands, and only then did Fenris notice that the tremors had intensified to an obvious shaking that travelled up his arms. Maybe he would actually be able to understand, for he was a healer – and an exceptionally good one as well - but this would include opening up to him, and Fenris wasn’t inclined to do that. The recent talks with the mage had already bared enough of him – of both of them.

 

‘It’s your lyrium marks, isn’t it?’

 

Well, maybe some decent guessing would spare him the revealing talk, but his decision still stood: he wouldn’t be vulnerable in front of him.

 

‘Spare me your pity, for this is none of your concern. And even if it was: I highly doubt you would be able to find a solution for my… state.’

 

‘Try me.’

 

His eyes shone golden in the firelight, and, again, there laid that utter naked challenge in them as it did that day under the oak tree. Why did it always have to be these contests of willpower between the two of them? They battled with their life-agendas, their point of view on almost everything, and instead of an ultimate clash that would either destroy them or propel them far from each other, they were bound like twin stars caught up in their own gravity, enchained in a mad dance to the very end. It would never make sense to him.

 

Fenris took a deep breath that smelled and tasted of burnt pine wood and sea salt.

 

‘Why are you trying to help me? You gain nothing from it.’

 

Anders stared at him dumbfounded. Then a smile pulled at his lips that transformed that strangely aged man back to the twenty-something creature that lived in the colors of the sun.

 

‘Above all else, I’m a healer. I heal. I help people because you don’t need a reason to help someone.’

 

Fenris was inclined to believe his words, and, for the love of the Maker, he wasn’t able to muster the reason _why_.  So much for not baring his soul in front of the mage.

 

‘…there isn’t a time when my brands don’t hurt. The pain isn’t always intense, yet it never leaves me. On occasions like today where I had to pull a lot of energy from my brands, the backlash is…severe.’

 

The mage nodded. ‘You once told Hawke that your memory starts with the agony of receiving these brands. Do you remember anything else about them? Their magical concept? Their origin? Anything?’

 

How many times had he asked himself the same questions? But the only place he would be able to find answers would be Tevinter – and no force in all of Thedas would make him go back there. He shook his head, both to get rid of the more than unpleasant memory and to negate Anders’ question. Blinking into the crackling fire, a sudden thought crossed his mind.

 

‘The bloodmage once mentioned my marks would look like the vallaslin of the Dalish. Maybe that’s some strange coincidence, but the similarities are too striking to be ignored. They might be of elven origin, but that’s just a shot in the dark.’

 

The mage scratched at the stubble on his chin, lost in thought. What an oddly endearing sight.  ‘Yes, I’d thought as much, but there’s something else I noticed.’ Lifting his outstretched arm from under his cover, he leveled Fenris with a cautious gaze. ‘Please, don’t freak out, just look at this. You’ve seen me cast this spell before, just… observe, okay?’

 

With that, the whitish-blue glow of a circular glyph manifested right next to them. The circle’s rim was broken by intersecting arrows that formed a four-armed star in the center.

 

‘That’s your _glyph of repulsion_.  You use that one fairly often,’ Fenris said, and continued with a frown, ‘I don’t see the connection between your spell and my lyrium brands other than that they are shiny.’

 

‘I’m astonished you deigned to learn its name, but there’s something more to it than the flashy exterior.’ 

 

The glyph on the ground started to slowly spin around its axis, gaining new arms and branches with every complete turn, but always keeping its perfect symmetry. Fenris couldn’t help himself; he stared at the rotating sign as if hypnotized, the lingering pain suppressed to the farthest realms of his consciousness. In the end, the glyph had an eerie resemblance with the lines that meandered along his body.

 

Snapping out of his trance, the elf searched Anders’ gaze, and found the other already watching him intently.

 

‘A glyph. What if the markings were originally a glyph…,’ he whispered, while the blinding light diffused into nothing but the reddish glow of the campsite.

 

Anders nodded. ‘Yes, a glyph that ended up being burnt into your body instead of being rooted to the ground where it belongs. That’s exactly the fix point! You see, glyphs gain their power from the ground they are planted on. The mage just determines their direction, their nature. The moment a glyph is lifted into the air, it is bound to dissolve.’

 

Recognition sank heavy as lead to the bottom of Fenris’ very being. ‘And Danarius altered its source of power, had it imprinted on me. I sustain it.’

 

‘Yes and vice versa. That’s where things get complicated. If you draw on your glyph too much, as you did today, you are creating an imbalance that comes crashing back at you like a tidal wave. You are not the ground that can absorb and absorb until the equilibrium is reinstalled. You are…you…wait…’ Anders let the sentence hang in the air between them unfinished until he jerkily shrugged out of his plaid to crawl the few steps over next to the elf. Up close, he towered over him, and excitement was written all over his features.

 

‘You aren’t the ground, but you should be able to deflect the glyph’s energy down to the earth. At least in theory. We just need a point to start.’ He raised his hand while his eyes raked over Fenris’ bared arms and let them roam over the rest of his body. The elf was reminded of the moment in the ruins when he’d killed Kelder: it was the same hot gaze that the mage directed at him. He knew that kind of all-consuming glance: it spoke of desire, of lust. Dread settled in his guts, and his instincts kicked in.

 

‘Don’t you dare touch me, mage,’ he growled in warning, while he readied himself to attack if push came to shove. No mage would ever lay a hand on him again.

 

All color fled the other’s face as he back-pedaled, raising his hands palms up in surrender. ‘I’m sorry, I won’t bring harm upon you, I swear. I would never dare to hurt you.’ His last words were almost lost over the crackling fire, yet Fenris heard them nonetheless. He wasn’t sure if it was a secret spell that Anders was using, because for the second time, he found himself believing the man’s words the instant they left his mouth.

 

‘Just don’t touch me,’ he grumbled in reconciliation.

 

Anders merely nodded. Sitting back on his haunches, the mage continued his pondering with more caution than before. ‘The glyph is connected to your life-energy. Correct me if you please, but my guess is that those three-dot-constellations are the center-points of the sign. You’ve got them on your pulse point as markers for your heart. The one on your forehead is linked to your mind’s powers… and I’m sure there are others all over your body.’

 

The mage averted his eyes to spare him the discomfort of his hungry gaze, and Fenris was silently thankful for that. He had to figure out this growing attraction towards him in an equally silent moment. Right now, his aching burns reminded him of more pressing matters.

 

‘This is of no real relevance, or am I mistaken?’

 

‘Not really.’ Anders had the decency to blush. ‘But if my theory proves to be right, you could use your pulse point constellations to focus your glyph’s rampant energy to the ground and get rid of it like that.’

 

Fenris considered the suggestion with his head cocked to the side, worrying his lower lip in concern. ‘Won’t the lyrium do damage to the ground? I don’t really know… like set flame to the place and such? And how should I even achieve that?’

 

The mage’s features softened. ‘I’ve never told you of Sigrun, haven’t I? My dwarven companion during my time in Amaranthine?’ When the elf didn’t answer and just raised a brow in question, he continued his musings.

 

‘I’ve learned a lot about dwarves and stones, and _earth_ in general from that dear lady. She always said that the stone is kind and forgiving. It takes and takes without complaint. It will surely accept the lyrium back into its cold, hard heart. As for the how… actually, I don’t really know. You said you pull at your marks for power. Maybe just redirect the energy and push it off? Does that make sense?’

 

 _Yes and no_ , Fenris thought to himself. To downplay his own insecurity, he put on his best, yet rare winning smile that seemed to have an infectious effect on the mage. Closing his eyes again, he concentrated on the power and the pain that battled in his veins, gathered them all up until he felt full to the brim with both of them, then released them through both of his hands into the sandy ground. His fingers went numb as they clawed into the earth, knuckles white under the strain. He was dimly aware that the agonizing cry that could be heard must be from his own throat, but it was far too late to hold it back, so he screamed and screamed until the world tilted sideways and went pitch black.

 

The last thing he noticed, was long soft fingers carding through his hair and an itchy, ill-colored plaid being thrown over him to shelter him from the chilly morning air, while the fire burnt down to embers again.

 

The pain, as ever-present it once was, was gone without a trace.


	5. reaching for the stars

_‘You are watching him again.’_

Leave it to Justice to state the obvious. Anders took a sip of his cider, tuning out the noise of the tavern as he preferred to be further lost in his own little world of stray thoughts.

Their trip back to Kirkwall had been uneventful in itself, yet Anders kept an eye out for the elf the whole way: Untroubled by pain, he’d held himself straighter, his head raised high and he’d lost a large part of his usual skittishness.

Watching Fenris sleep had been a blessed experience. The elf had pretty much collapsed next to him when their little experiment came to fruition, and Anders wasn’t able to suppress a little panic attack because of the other’s unresponsiveness, but after a thorough all over check, he just proved to be deep asleep. Back then, Fenris’ screams had roused the whole party, and both Hawke and Isabela sat next to them for a while to make sure that, no, he hadn’t murdered Fenris in his sleep, and, no, he had no further plans to do so in the near future. Anders tried to explain their cure procedure as simple as possible, and satisfied by his answer they yawned and went back to get some sleep before the sun went up.

Fenris was handsome even with a deep frown on his face, but relaxed in sleep, he looked…magical. The mage had to smile to himself for he was absolutely sure that the other would despise at attribute wholeheartedly, but it didn’t change the fact that Fenris was without a doubt the most beautiful creature in all of Thedas. He sounded sappy and over-exaggerating in his own mind, but he couldn’t help it.

_I don’t understand your fixation on the elf. His lyrium is appealing to me, but I fail to see what draws you to him, my friend. He is troublesome and irritating._

Again, stating the obvious.

How was he to explain the concept of attraction to a creature of the Fade? Especially when he had to wrap his mind around said attraction on his own first and foremost. There was this strong, sexual aspect that resurfaced over and over again recently, but that was only one facet of the problem. Anders carved Fenris’ attention, and more than anything else: his approval – and that was the one, fateful reason that led to their vile and violent clashes. For the umpteenth time, his eyes searched for the elf and found him in deep conversation with Isabela. He was the counterpoint to his very existence, yet he couldn’t fight that magnifying pull that lured him in.

What a mess.

Anders growled in frustration louder than intended. Merrill eyed him over the brim of her tankard, silently observing him and where his gaze had wandered off to. Justice and the bloodmage seemed to have developed a liking for, well, _watching him watching the elf_. An annoying voice in the back of his mind chirped in that he must be incredibly obvious when even cute and clueless Merrill had been able to pick up his roaming gaze and interpret it right.

But, wonder of wonders: Hawke aside, all the others of their merry little round of misfits were inclined to write it off as part of the usual banter and antics between him and Fenris – only Merrill seemed to have an inkling that something was up, but she kept it to herself. Thank the Maker for the small mercies. He didn’t bear contemplating what would happen if either Varric or Isabela were to take notice.

‘You seem to be rather…distracted lately, Anders,’ she said in a hushed tone. Sitting at the far end of the table in the Hanged Man had its upsides moreover. The grip to his glass tightened, his own face mirrored in the surface of the cider sitting in front of him. He looked alien, distorted. Upside-down. And felt like it. Not only was he utterly unable to ban Fenris from his thoughts, he had yet to settle back into what was normality before his little near-death experience that set into motion all these conflicts.

‘There’d been a lot on my mind. Stuff to sort out, you know,’ he said, his answer vague and ambiguous on purpose.

‘Almost dying would affect everyone.’

Once again, Anders was baffled by the accuracy of her observation: he had never mentioned to anyone how his ‘close-call’ had uprooted him and made him overthink many aspects of his life, yet the woman had been able to pin him down with one sentence. Exhaling a breath of bone-deep exhaustion, he took in her open face with the big, green eyes.

Eyes that spoke of a sharp mind.

He had made the mistake to confuse her naiveté for a lack of intelligence – and he had to pay for that error dearly now, because she wouldn’t let him off the hook with a good-natured joke as Hawke had done back in the garden.

‘I…could’ve been gone without changing anything. I mean…have you ever wondered what your impact on the world would be? No matter how big or small?’

Fierce determination crossed her features, and, suddenly, she didn’t look cute and clueless at all. For the fraction of a second, Anders was able to see the fine Keeper she would’ve been. She just nodded while fidgeting with her drink for a while.

‘Yes, I understand,’ she finally admitted. ‘I’m trying to make a difference on my own. I still don’t know whether I’ll succeed, but that won’t stop me from trying nonetheless. As for your own aims…I think you are making a whole lot of difference for all the people coming to your clinic, don’t you think?’

Anders sighed through his nose. What an insufferable sound. ‘I’m only able to help them near-term. I will never change anything on the long run for them – that’s not within my power. Ultimately, I have to fail them. All of them.’

‘You are their healer, not their guardian through life. You can’t patronize your patients, other than healing their illnesses, their wounds and bruises. And sometimes, not even that. You won’t be able to save them all. But that’s not failing them, Anders.’

Words of wisdom found in places unsuspected.

His lips curved upwards. ‘I know. The rational side in me _knows_ , but…I want to make a change for them. Somehow. I…still don’t know how.’

‘Focus.’

Her words sliced through the air like a whip, and Anders had to flinch out of reflex. ‘You can only save a few. Then let these few be the ones that matter to you.’

_The girl is right. Concentrate on what is dear to you._

How could Justice say something like that? Had he done anything, anytime other than exactly that? He’d already lost Karl to the Templars – and just thinking about that let searing-hot tears rise to the corners of his eyes. He’d always given his all to no avail. What would make the difference now?

‘Sometimes, you have to see the bigger picture. Make a grasp for the stars, even though they seem to be so far away, out of your reach.’ Merrill’s words sounded solemn. Introverted. Yet, they molded into his mindset like a puzzle piece set up to match. What if his concepts had been too small, too narrow-minded to really change anything for the better? In order to save one, specific soul, he maybe had to set free all the others that suffered the same.

_We want them to be free. All of them._

Justice’s voice sounded like his own, speaking for both of them, with just one mind.

_Freedom for the mages._

That would indeed be like reaching for the most distant stars, but it was exactly the difference he wished to make. Memories of his first attempted escape rose behind his eyes: All the colors of the open world and the pain of losing them again, the moment the Templars finally came to drag him back to his sallow prison. No pain could ever arise to be as cutting and all-destroying as that one – and there had been many horrible pains afterwards. A shiver ran down his spine and the fingers clutching his glass began to shake.

A soft hand covering his stilled the movement and jerked him out of his dark thoughts. Merrill was watching him, a knowing smile dancing around her curved lips. If someone would’ve said that the bloodmage would be able to help him sort through the mess in his mind, he would’ve laughed out aloud, yet here he sat, listening to her insights and accepting her little comforts.

He barely recognized his own voice when he finally spoke up. ‘Reaching for the stars, you say…maybe I should give it a try.’

She chuckled softly, and let her gaze drift to Fenris sitting at the other end of the table next to Hawke and Isabela, before she turned to face him again. ‘You know, the stars shining the brightest are usually the ones closest to you. Make a grab at them isn’t that much of a hard task as one may think.’

When had their conversation drifted from deep-rooting life concepts to relationship advices? Anders had to swallow a groan. His voice was thin, unsure, when he finally was able to answer.

‘…and sometimes, the brightest stars are the ones the farthest away, for they are shining so very brightly with their very own energy. So much more powerful than all the others around them.’

He was sure that Merrill was able to decipher the meaning behind his words, and indeed, the small hand still covering his tightened in sympathy. Before she could counter, a good-natured laugh tore through the ambient aura that had formed between them.

‘Ey, are you two birdies holding hands over there?’ Isabela’s voice boomed through the room, turning the eyes of their companions on them. Merrill’s fingertips graced his skin in a friendly goodbye as she withdrew them.

‘Not really, we’re just discussing…astrology,’ she said, a nervous giggle scattered in to mask her obvious lie. Maker, she was lousy at lying. Anders looked at her open-mouthed. She was doing it again: Turning from that wise, wondrous creature of ancient times to the cute and clueless girl that got lost in Lowtown on a daily basis.

‘…astronomy,’ he mumbled. ‘It’s astronomy.’

‘Oh, yes! I always end up confusing these two!’

Isabela’s grin was that of a wolf: all teeth and ready to strike. ‘Sure. And topics like that do require some decent hand-holding, if I recall right. Come on, what’s going on between the two of you? Did Mr. Sparklefingers lure you in, sweet thing? He’s such a charming fellow, isn’t he? One smoldering gaze of honey-colored eyes makes every girl sway in their boots!’

Merrill stared at her in utter confusion. ‘I don’t wear boots…’

‘Wait, where’s my damn quill, I have to take notes,’ Varric huffed in amusement and even Hawke had to stifle a laugh.

Strangely enough, it was Fenris who interjected Isabela before she had the time to start another jibe. ‘Leave them be. It’s their decision with whom they…fraternize.’ His face remained unreadable when he met Anders’ eyes for a brief moment. ‘If they want to take pleasure in each other, let them. It’s not for you to judge, Rivaini.’ 

The pirate stemmed one hand to her hip in feigned exasperation. ‘But aren’t you curious?’

Maybe it was due to the flickering lowlight of the candle-lit room, but Anders was sure he’d seen the ghost of a smile pull at Fenris’ lips.

Isabela stuck to her guns. ‘Come on. The dashing healer and the exiled bloodmage! That’s the stuff fairytales are made of!’

‘Or tragedies,’ the elf deadpanned. ‘Whatever this leads to: Let them be. It’s their choice.’

Anders was speechless – and that in itself was a rare occurrence. He wasn’t sure why the other took up on defending them - even though the _them_ was nonexistent. It surely wasn’t out of sympathy for either of them: Quite on the contrary. But now that he thought about Fenris’ verbiage: The words ‘decision’, ‘choice’, ‘pleasure without judgement’ began to ring in his ears and morphed into something that actually made sense.

_He was denied all of that throughout his life. That’s unjust._

His own guts churned in sudden understanding. He knew, Maker, how he knew. He’d lacked all of them dearly for such a long time that he fully indulged in them when he finally had been able to do as he pleased, do as he wanted, and do as he dared. He exploited the many chances that crossed his way until he was numb with ecstasy. And Fenris must have experienced pretty much the same. To be finally able to define your own sexuality, be master over your own body and your own preferences: That’s a liberty in the most self-defining way – and as much as the elf was in opposition on almost every topic concerning mages they ever breached, he granted him that little, yet important freedom actively.

Anders was just one step away from thanking him, when Isabela leant closer to Fenris and whispered loud enough to be heard, ‘Is your choice still valid? You’re accompanying me tonight?’

‘I said so. Do you have second thoughts?’

‘Thoughts?’ Her laughter rang like bells on a sunny morning. ‘Make me think nothing at all.’

Fenris graced her with a tiny smile and Hawke made a silly joke that had everyone laugh aloud. The conversation drifted off to idle chatter that murmured on without direction, without consequence. A mere whisper in the distance.

Breathing was a hard task, Anders decided.

Breathe in was step one, breathe out step two. Easy enough to grasp – then why was his throat constricting like that? It was Fenris’ choice who he decided to bed and he deserved the same freedom as Anders did. What had he said to Hawke back in the ruins? _Fenris deserved better_ – and Isabela was a gem in every way, he knew firsthand. Except that he had no way to ban the choking press to his throat. He had to get out of here.

Fast.

Now.

The chair screeched in an ugly, high tune when he rose abruptly, turning everyone’s eyes on him. He pressed a desperate ‘Forgot something. Sorry,’ between his trembling lips and headed for the door, well aware that Merrill was calling out his name in worry.

The cool night air sobered him somewhat even though he wasn’t drunk. His feet carried him on and on, always following a route engraved to the most basic areas of his brain. As by miracle, he encountered no thugs, no Templars, no slavers or any other questionable creatures of Kirkwall’s nightly backstreets and only slowed his steps to crumble to the ground the moment he reached the ancient oak tree in his garden.

He gritted his teeth, sucking in whistling breaths between them.

Sweet Maker.

He behaved like an over-dramatic school girl, but everything was crashing down on him with oppressive force. No, not everything. It all narrowed down to that damnable elf. Over and over again. Fenris and his loathsome sneer. His cuttingly accurate words and narrow-minded concept of mages. His sharp gaze and full-lipped smile, rare as fog in June. The way he transformed to a mystical creature when asleep.

Andraste’s sweet bosom, why was he to fall in love so easily? There was no use in denying it anymore when the truth smiled right into his face in all of her colors: He did fall for the most complicated person in the whole, wide world. And quite hopelessly at that. Why couldn’t it be Hawke? Hawke with his catching laughter and open personality. Things would be easier with him.

_Life has never been easy for you, my friend._

The back of his head hit the tree with a dull thud and Anders groaned. The bark dug into the skin of his bony shoulders when he leant against the broad trunk, stretching his legs out in front of him. Finally, he was able to draw in deep lungful’s of air. Time was always caught up in a loop here under the oak: Not by much, but it was softly slowed down. He didn’t really know what caused that abnormality, but he found himself embracing it now more than ever. When he lifted his head to gaze through the dark tree top, the silvery band of the Milky Way was flowing across the night sky undisturbed and clear.

Anders’ heart sank.

Never before had the stars seemed to be that far away.

 


	6. chamomile and the policy of strength

Fenris stared at the crumbly soil as if it had personally insulted him. Why was he even doing this, he asked himself for the hundredth time, yet failing to find a satisfactorily answer as he poured a cup of water into the flower pot that held the little acorn. Somehow the insufferable mage had managed to spur him into a project that was doomed from the very start. His challenging faith in him was hard to battle, and Fenris found himself inclined to give it a try even though there was hardly a successful outcome to be expected. 

The harder he wracked his brain about the how’s and why’s of Anders’ ill-placed faith in him the more it charmed him into proving him right: That he wasn’t just a weapon, a magister’s tool, but a living, feeling creature that was able to raise something with his own hands. He would make Danarius see all the things he’d denied him and deemed him incapable to do.

For once, he and Anders stood on the same side, and he still wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Moving the pot a bit more into direct sunlight on the windowsill, Fenris had to admit that it wasn’t the worst feeling. Normally, it was Hawke who lined them up on his side and the both of them had to get along – but actually being of one mind was a rare sight.

The acorn had been their somewhat completely unplanned peace-offering, and he would be damned if he’d blow it. Maker, he even asked _Merrill_ of all people for gardening advice! Just thinking about her over-enthusiastic chat about seeds and saplings made him cringe inwardly, yet she proved to be a good source of information.

As justified his reasons were to mistrust the mage _, any mage_ , Fenris couldn’t help but wonder whether he’d misconstrued Anders’ character out of habit. They both were bone-headed and their opinions differed in many ways, yet the mage stuck to his ideals and that included healing people without asking for something in return. No magister would ever do something like that.  On the other hand: His union with that ghost from the fade made him highly instable and unpredictable, and that fact alone let Fenris shy away from him out of deep-rooted fear. Anders magical nature wasn’t destructive per se, yet freed of all inhibitions he could certainly wreak havoc to a tremendous degree – let alone what chaos would unfurl if he would succumb to his demon and became an abomination.

No, there was no way he would let his guard down around him. His policy of strength would prevent that.

His eyes returned to the little pot of clay, then travelled along the white burns that curled down his arms.

Yet he already _had_ , on several occasions to be precise and just thinking of the night at the Wounded Coast when his marks had tormented him, let mixed feelings bubble up from the pit of his stomach. Anders had helped him to figure out an effective remedy for his chronic pains, out of…what? The goodness of his heart? Fenris wasn’t quite convinced about that, yet he still had no reason to doubt the sincerity of the mage’s intentions. What gnawed at his guts was the other’s gaze of thinly veiled desire. It was obvious that the mage harbored quite some intense interest in his person, and, again, his instincts screamed at him to run; run as fast and farthest he could manage. The funny thing was: In the silence of his mind, he was able to admit that if Anders weren’t a mage, he would be attracted to him in equal measures.

 He shoved that thought back to the dark and dusty corner it had emerged from. He had to focus on matters at hand. Again, his gaze swept over his brandings. The mage might not know about his marks specifically, yet he knew a great deal about seals and glyphs – and Fenris would kill to get some knowledge about the one that was used on him for it defined his very being in every way possible. Maybe he could convince him to do some research on his behalf? Maybe even goad him into his own little pet-project pretty much as he had managed to do with him and his acorn. He still wasn’t sure how to achieve that exactly, but given the fact that the mage was rather inclined to appreciate Fenris’ charms, his guess was that there wouldn’t be much need for conviction.  Nonetheless, he was asking for help, and that prospect made him uneasy because it undermined his policy of strength he fought to keep up around the mage.

Standing, he secured his great sword to his back. It felt as if the little flower pot was glaring at him, so he turned again gracing it with his best scrutinizing stare. The pot remained unimpressed, but Fenris was sure it was whispering _strength can be found in asking for help_ in a tune barely noticeable.

He spun on his heel and fled the room before he was able to question his sanity any further, heading straight for Darktown with its stench and unbearable heat. In Fenris’ opinion that district was living proof that Kirkwall was doomed forever, no matter what the future may hold in store: A city built on such decay and  desperation was like a shiny apple with a rotten core. Spoilt and tainted.

The clinic’s lantern was lit and visible from afar, a beacon in a sea of dull, muted colors. Upon entering, he found the room deserted save for the healer who stood at the far end, idly rolling up some bandages, lost in thought. His posture was slumped as the burdens of the day seemed to weigh heavy on him. The late afternoon sun already casted long shadows through the blinds and the ever present dust of Darktown danced in the air in tiny golden specks. Anders’ clinic was rarely a place for silence and serenity, yet in that moment the tip tap of his bare feet echoed through the open space unnaturally loud.

Fenris began to ask himself why he always seemed to be the intruder who disturbed a perfectly peaceful scenery with his mere existence, when Anders flinched and turned to him, surprise evident on his face.

‘Fenris? Are you injured? Do you need healing?’ He rushed forwards, taking him in from head to toe while casting a simple detection spell for any uncovered harms. Fenris shied away with the hiss not unlike that of a spooked animal, glowering at the mage from under his fringe.

‘I’m sorry; I wasn’t my intention to scare you with that spell. You see, normally you bleed bucketsful onto my clinic floor when you come in here, so your intentions are kinda…obvious.’

Ah, there it was: That lopsided smile that was so very him. Fenris was glad he lured it out without knowing _why_ he did that at all.

‘Yet, today, you sneak in here hale and hearty and are _still_ not saying one, fucking word.’ Anders had crossed his arms in front of his chest and used his superior height to glare down at the elf, but his soft expression undermined his supposedly hostile gesture.

Fenris wasn’t able to fend off the small smile that crept onto his lips, when the other babbled on undisturbed.

‘If you are here to collect me for one of Hawke’s one-way-ticket-jobs, I have to decline, this day had been hell and I’m drained. If Varric had sent you out to get the Coterie off of my back, then, thanks, I can manage well on my own – delicate mage flower as I might be. And if Aveline made you scout, tell her that she can sod off, too. Everyone knows that the city guards are nothing but lesser Templars. But, believe it or not: I’m a well-respected citizen down here in the sewers. People will warn me if the wrong kinds of persons are stupid enough to snoop around here. Tell her that.’

By now, the mage had started to fidget with something that proved to be a small, ancient stove and put a kettle on it, without stopping his gush of words.

‘Oh, and if Xenon had paid you to get his book back: Forget it, it’s mine now, he’d lost it in a fair bet. That half-dried potato has no use for it anyhow. I mean, of what use might a volume on transfiguration be to a creature that vegetates behind solid glass since late stone-age?’

Anders was betting with the antiquarian? That must’ve been an interesting sight, and it roused Fenris’ curiosity, yet the blatantly dark magical context made him cringe inwardly at the same time. His distaste must’ve been visible on his face, because the other laughed aloud in a throaty rumble.

‘No, elf, you don’t want to know the details, believe me. But Xenon hadn’t sent you here if you’ve got no knowledge about that. And that’s for the best.’

The mage’s gaze was back on him, surveying him in silent question. Even with exhaustion written all over his face, he looked handsome in a subtle way. Anders wasn’t a beauty in a classical sense, but all his different traits worked together well. And even if he loathed admitting it: His running mouth was one of his assets that accompanied his features to form something…nice. Suddenly, Fenris remembered that he’d planned on activating his charm on him, but here he was, standing mute and pretty much frozen to the spot as Anders worked his own charm _on him._ The Maker really had some strange taste in humor.

A steaming cup of _something_ was pushed into his hands, and Fenris had to grip its handle tighter when it slipped around the metal of his gauntlets. He eyed the contents with a frown.

‘Chamomile tea. It’s stupid, ordinary chamomile. Freshly harvested,’ Anders said, and to underline his words, he fished some of the small flowers from his own cup with a hiss to display their harmlessness. ‘I have no intention of poisoning you. I’m trying to be a decent host. I’ve still got no idea what might’ve brought you here, but -’. His sentence hung in the air for a few unbearably long seconds, before he continued. ‘But be welcome.’

Fenris had to admit that Anders’ charms were working pretty well on him. One part of his mind screamed to cling to his policy of strength and refrain himself from getting vulnerable, the other sounded suspiciously like the whisper of the acorn, telling him to make a first step, wherever it may lead to.

Maybe he could do both.

‘Something had been occupying my mind and it might be within your abilities to find a proper solution.’ Great, so much for flirting his way to get want he wanted. He sounded more like a lawyer than anything else.

‘Andraste’s sweet bosom, he’s talking! And here I was already convinced that you’d gone mute!’

And, once more, the mage was back to his insufferable, petty self. Handsome or not.

‘But I might’ve overestimated your abilities,’ Fenris spat and sat the cup down on the nearest available surface with so much force that the hot liquid sloshed over its brim. He was already spinning on his heel in order to leave, when Anders stopped his momentum by grabbing his wrist.

‘C’mon, elf, I meant no offense, I –‘

Twisting his arm from the firm hold, Fenris’ gauntlets slashed across the mage’s back of his hand, leaving angry red lines in their wake. Ander’s cup hit the ground with a dull clang, tea spilling everywhere.

‘Don’t you dare to touch me, mage! Ever.’

He was seething right now, white noise filling his ears to the until he thought he might burst. A mistake. This had all been a horrible mistake. He’d been out of his mind to think an approach on a mage could lead to any positive outcomes. Anders stammered words almost didn’t register.

‘I’m sorry, I fucked up again. You’ve warned me not to touch you and I did nonetheless. I…I didn’t want to scare you away though.’

The mage stood in front of him, palms up in open apology while tiny droplets of blood dripped down into the mess on the floor, where the chamomile flowers stared up at Fenris in silent accusation. He hadn’t meant to injure Anders, not really, it was a mere act of self-defense, but he’d lashed out without thought, acting on the impulse to get away. It was that blind instinct that had next to nothing in common with his so called policy of strength: It was mindless, always kicking in at the barest sign of threat. His agenda to never let a mage come close to him again was something completely different. One stemmed of his most basic fear, the other was a conscious decision made out of bitter experience. Fenris inhaled a deep breath in hopes that this would center him again, but failed miserably. His voice was shaky when he was finally able to address the mage again, eyes still downcast, looking at the little flowers in the wet dirt.

‘You…you once said that I’m nothing but a wild dog. Guess you can call yourself lucky that I’ve proven you right that easily.’

A whitish light let him raise his gaze again. With a swift gesture, the mage’s cuts closed out of their own accord, disappearing as if they’d never been there, but Fenris knew better.

‘Back that at the Wounded Coast, you’ve set up one, single rule in regard  to your person, and today I managed to cross that boundary with my thoughtlessness,’ Anders said, remorse shining through with every syllable. ‘I brought that upon me on my own.’  

Crouching to pick up the broken shards of earthenware, he spoke more to the ground than to the elf still towering above him. ‘I was also wrong to belittle you like that. You are no animal. You are a person with a sharp mind and a bright soul. You’ve got your limitations as everyone does, and I should’ve respected that.’ And after a small pause, ‘Even if you are damn lousy at communication.’

Anders discarded the poor remains of his cup into a rusty bucket, before he straightened again with a gawkish grace Fenris couldn’t help but find endearing.

‘Actually, I came here to talk,’ Fenris confessed, his voice fading out when he noticed the irony of his own comment, but thankfully, the mage’s smile was back as if their little clash had never happened.

‘Talking isn’t your strong suit, is it?’

Fenris shook his head. Neither was flirting, but the mage didn’t need to know that. His instincts let him injure Anders; his damn policy wasn’t turning out as expected, so maybe it was time to take the acorn’s advice to heart: Asking for help harbored its own strength – and only a direct approach would get him anywhere.

He eyed the pitiful flowers on the ground one last time before he held the other’s gaze.

‘I came to ask for your help.’

There it was. The words lay open for Anders to judge. Instead of another gush of commentary, Anders faintly smiled at him.

‘Always.’

Fenris wasn’t sure why that single word filled him with such comfort the moment it left the man’s lips, yet it did.

It echoed through his mind until he lost track of it, yet the warmth it left in its wake remained.


	7. time and space

_The elf is dangerous. He injured you. Stay away from him. I already warned you, so why won’t you listen? I understand his appeal, but that doesn’t counterbalance his potential harm._

 It wasn’t that Justice was needlessly critical and over-protective, yet Anders had discarded the idea of ‘staying away from the elf’ like eons ago, and was quite on the contrary pulled in by the inescapable gravity of him.

Right now, said source of intergalactic disturbance stood quietly in front of him, eyeing him with tense expectation after he finally blurted out his request for help. Anders was at a loss for how to proceed after their violent clash mere moments ago. Meddling with the elf was like treating on thin ice – you’ll never know if you’ll break in.

No, not _if_.

 _When_.

Between the two of them, it was always only a matter of time until they were bound to slither into another confrontation.

Against better judgement, his tongue was faster than his over-occupied brain. He would’ve never guessed that his simple ‘always’ as an immediate answer to Fenris’ question would put such a nice smile on the elf’s face.

_You have no idea what you’ve signed yourself up to, my friend._

No, not the slightest, but if Fenris continued to grace him with that smile, he would do _a lot_. Maker, he was so predictable.

‘I doubt you need advice in brewing chamomile tea, so, what’s bothering you?’ Nice, finally his brain caught up with his running mouth. Better late than never. His new strategy around the warrior had to be ‘think more, talk less’, if he planned on avoiding further mishaps.

A deep chuckle answered him. ‘No, chamomile tea is not exactly what I came here for – even though I appreciate your offer. My request is of a much more…delicate nature.’ Fenris was obviously very uncomfortable in voicing the finer details of his problem. He picked up his abandoned cup and hesitantly took a sip. Anders lowered himself on a crate and decided to wait in silence – as tempting as a more direct approach might’ve been. The elf needed time and space.

_Intergalactic disturbance._

Justice was slowly picking up on the concept of sarcasm – at the most ill-fitting times. Anders was barely able to rein in a full out laugh, but a chortled huff escaped him nonetheless. Fenris stared at him with raised eyebrows. He had nice eyebrows. Expressive. Dark.

‘I beg your pardon, it’s just…Justice had some sudden input in regards of you. He said you need more time and space around me.’ Technically it wasn’t a lie, not really. ‘Sometimes his comments are a bit spontaneous and derail my train of thought, it’s hard to explain. I’m sorry if I interrupted you.’ Phew, that sounded almost believable.

‘That’s rather schizophrenic.’

‘I’m well aware, but it happens when you house a spirit of justice next to your own soul.’

‘But your…spirit’s insights aren’t completely wrong. I…I’m not…easy to be around. Neither are you. That’s why we collide. It’s just how we are.’

That and their completely different ideologies. Anders nodded, gazing up at the elf still standing ramrod straight in front of him. Gesturing to the barrel right next to him, he asked ‘Why won’t you take a seat? We still have some problem solving to do.’

The other hesitated, lost in deep thought, and belatedly, Anders noticed that in order to sit down, Fenris had to _disarm_. He would be without a weapon, facing a mage with all the spells of the Fade at his beck and call. Anders cringed inwardly: A strategical error, once more. Before he had a chance to back-paddle, the other dispatched his claymore to let it rest against the barrel before he took a seat right next to it.

_That’s a decent compromise. Your elf is far from stupid. Like that he will still be able to behead us with one twist and a strike._

Why had he ever introduced Justice to sarcasm in the first place? Another strategical error. Fenris' deep voice brought him back to present.

‘You already helped me with the pain my brands are causing me, and now I have to ask another favor of you. One that is directly linked to the first.’ He took his cup again, gazing into the liquid as if to find the strength to voice his request aloud laying there and nowhere else. ‘I want to ask you if you could do some research on the glyph that was used on me.’

Finally the cat was out of the bag.

‘Yeah, sure,’ Anders answered, sounding lame to his own ears. He’d expected a thousand things the elf could possibly need help with, but some research on a magical topic wasn’t one of them. Yet given the fact that Fenris tried desperately to get his hands on the few, sparse scraps that were left of his forgotten past, it made a whole lot of sense.

‘I didn’t want to bother Hawke. Everyone’s always relying on him. And Merrill…’ Fenris shuddered visibly. ‘Her commitment to bloodmagic ruled her out, even though she could most likely know a thing or two about the glyph’s origin. So, you are the expert here. I will pay you, of course. I hope that you may find a way to discover its concept, its background, its history. I don’t know.’ His gaze wandered to his cup again. ‘That thing is so much part of me, yet I know next to nothing about it. And, Maker, I want to know.’

Anders felt a pang in his chest. He hated to see him so lost and struggling for composure. The urge to reach out and comfort him grew steadily, yet the elf’s ‘no touch’ rule dangled over his head like Damocles’ sword. He clasped his hands in his lap to restrain himself.

‘I understand,’ he said with a nod. ‘I will check my own resources; maybe even ask some of my contacts in the gallows. I have already a vague inkling where to start – and I will definitely ask Merrill for her opinion, just to let you know. Bloodmagic or not, if the glyph is of Dalish origin, she may have a lead. And forget about the payment. You’ve dragged me back from the brink of death. That’s payback in my eyes.’ Anders hoped that his wide smile would be audible in his words and, indeed, the other finally looked up from his cup.

‘If you say so...’

‘I say so.’

‘You’re insufferable.’

‘I know, but I’m charming while being insufferable.’

Fenris closed his eyes as if in pain and shook his head in mute surrender.

But.

Was there actually a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips?

_Maybe. Maybe, my friend. I still don’t understand why the elf’s smile is of importance, but you both forgot about something that’s important in equal measures: You have no idea that his glyph looks like except for the few bits that are showing in between his armor._

Well, fuck. This had to be the third strategical error within five minutes. And furthermore, an immensely complicated topic to approach. Anders was sorting through possible ways to start a conversation without sounding ominous. In the end, he accepted his defeat and braced himself for another clash that he could already see dawning at the horizon.

‘I have next to no idea how your glyph looks like, Fenris.’

For someone gifted with such a lovely dark skin tone, Fenris was able to pale rather considerably. It would’ve been rather comically, weren’t it for the look of utter horror that bloomed on his features the moment the consequences of his commission began to sink in.

‘I…I need some layout, at least some basic visual concept of your signs in order to start a decent study,’ Anders said. Wonderful, his words sounded perfectly mundane, yet their meaning was still borderline lascivious. He more or less asked Fenris for a detailed nude drawing of himself.

Swallowing with visible effort, the elf merely nodded, every line of his body under tension that seemed to reverberate in the air all around him.

Anders heaved a sigh. ‘Listen, elf. I don’t want to force you into something you are not comfortable with. Go; maybe ask our pirate queen to make a nice drawing, if you’re more at ease around her.’

He almost scrambled backwards the moment Fenris stood abruptly to pace the room in long strides that let his disunity shine through. Patience, Anders told himself. He had to cling to his strategy: Give him space. Give him time. He could do that.

The slowly setting sun flooded the room in an orange hue, and Fenris was aglow in the midst of it, shining golden as if Arlathan had never fallen: A timeless, ethereal creature from lands long sunken. Anders was so lost in his adoration that he only noticed the elf being back in front of him when his shadow fell over him.

‘You’re staring, mage,’ Fenris growled, a deep frown on his face.

‘Isabela would say that I’m enjoying the view.’

‘She absolutely would.’ Glaring down at him, the elf seemed to chew on his next words. ‘You do like the way I look, don’t you.’

Anders had to huff a laugh. ‘I can’t be the first one to tell you that you’re handsome even by elven standards. But in case no one ever told you: Yes, you are very pleasing to the eye.’

Something flashed across his features, a flickering emotion that was gone as fast as it had appeared. Belatedly, Anders recognized it as fear: His stance alone spoke of fight or flight barely reined in. Sudden realization hit Anders like a sledgehammer.

‘It unsettles you when a mage finds you attractive. That’s the catch, isn’t it? It’s always narrows down to that.’

The elf’s lips were pressed to a thin line, and the curt nod accompanied with a stare from under his fringe let dread settle low in Anders stomach. His very existence must appall the other. His thoughts wandered back to the clear night under his oak tree when the stars were so achingly far away. Anders swallowed around the lump in this throat. How could something be so close that it radiated so much warmth, yet be so unreachable out of his grasp at the very same time?

‘I’m sorry that I’m such an atrocity to you.’ He knew he sounded wounded, bitter, but, Maker, it hurt to be dismissed like that, just because of what he was born like. ‘I’ve never hurt you, I’m no magister who forces himself upon you, and to the Void, I’m even trying to fucking help you, yet you have nothing but contempt in store for me.’

Here it was coming: the clash he’d noticed brewing at the horizon – and he himself set it into motion once more. He steeled himself for another confrontation.

Instead of tagging along and tumble into another fight, Anders watched in confusion, as the elf began to unbuckle his breast plate and set it aside with a clang. Long, lean fingers appeared when he got rid of his gauntlets one by one, and soon his complete set of armor lay in the packed dirt of the clinic’s floor. Fenris hesitated for a moment before he started to unclasp the fastenings of his dark tunic. Anders could be mistaken, but he was rather sure that Fenris’ hands were shaking slightly when he pulled the garment over his head. There was nothing distinctively erotic in his movements, but the sight of the source of his wet dreams peeling out of every piece of clothing did _things_ to him. This must be another near death experience, there was no other explanation, Anders decided as he sat there staring dumbfounded at the incredible display in front of him. Maker, the elf was beautiful: all lean lines of corded muscle from head to toe and bronze skin that shone in the fading rays of light.

There wasn’t an ounce of shame in Fenris’ features the moment his smallclothes added to the pile of discarded clothes on the floor.

Anders wasn’t aware how much his thoughts had wandered off until the other fished him back to reality with the timbre of his deep voice.

‘I can’t believe I’m saying this, but: You aren’t an atrocity and, indeed, you have not hurt me once. I trust you to a certain degree, but…’

He bent to pick up his claymore and rammed it into the ground in front of him, still keeping its handle in a loose grip. He leveled Anders with a probing stare, eyes dark green in the backlight.

‘But there are limits to everything. Prove that you are no magister. Heed my rules: Don’t touch me. Don’t use magic on my person that isn’t sanctioned beforehand.’

Anders mouth was dry, his higher brain functions on hold as his blood rushed down to serve another, more basic purpose. There was no use in denying: He was hard by now.

The planted sword displayed no subtle of threat, yet at the same time, it was nothing more than the elf’s last line of defense – and that was okay with Anders.

_Remember, one twist and a strike and your head will be the top decoration on the elf’s pile of cloths._

He nodded in confirmation to both – Fenris and Justice.

‘If I would’ve known that stripping would get you so perfectly mute and silent, I would’ve considered going nude a long time ago. It would be a small price to pay.’ Fenris’ small smile was back to mock him a bit, but Anders thoughts were still stuck somewhere between the other’s long legs and the surprisingly wide expanse of his shoulders.

‘Go; get something to draw. You know best how to bring the glyph to paper.’

The glyph. How was he to forget about that.

Anders staggered to his feet much clumsier than expected because his lanky legs refused to fold up accordingly and his manhood constricted the radius of movement considerably. Thank the Maker for his many layers of clothing that kept this circumstance hidden. He noticed that the elf gripped the hilt tighter, and instinctively took a step back.

Time and space. No more strategical errors.

He rushed past him and headed to his desk where he gathered his writing utensils. The shard of broken mirror on the wall showed his flushed complexion. A few strands of hair had escaped his up do and curled around his face. He combed them back behind his ear with his fingers for there was no time to righten his ponytail. What was he even doing here? Grooming for Fenris? He swallowed a bitter laugh that settled like lead in his guts. Even though the other had spoken against him being vile and disgusting, there was no doubt that his infatuation was completely one-sided. The stars where close, so very close, shining in all of their beauty, yet they still remained so far, far away.

He scolded himself for upholding the small hope that insisted that one day, he might be able to reach across time and space and grasp what he yearned for so desperately.


	8. slaying the dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porn ahead, precious cupcakes.

Fenris’ grip on the hilt grew painful, his knuckles turning white under the strain.

 _You’re such a shortsighted idiot_ , he scolded himself.

How wasn’t he able to see the immediate consequences of his request? Maker’s breath, even a six year old child would’ve been able to notice. Now, he found himself standing right in front of the mage, wearing nothing but his claymore for dignity. There was no use in berating himself: He got himself into that mess, so he had to get out of it on his own somehow.

He took a deep breath in, felt his chest widen to the limit, held the air for a second, and slowly exhaled through his nose.

 _See, all better_ , he tried to convince the voice in the back of the mind that screamed at him to run and hide. The voice insisted that he knew perfectly well how it felt like to stand utterly vulnerable in front of a creature that wielded a power easily able to crush him in the blink of an eye. A creature that used his body as it pleased them. Back then, Fenris separated his mind from his physical form in situations like that: Treated them as two entities that existed on two different realms of reality, completely closed off from each other. It made it bearable, at least for a while. The pain came later, it always did.

The leather-bound hilt creaked in his palm, as the pressure on it raised further, the tip of the long blade being buried into the ground an inch deeper in the process.

No, he was done with running and hiding.

_So very done._

He would make a stand, pretty much as he did right now here in Anders’ ramshackle clinic. Come the time, he would face the dragon and slay him – even if he might loose his life in the process. _Death grants freedom, too_ , the nagging voice insisted. Fenris trampled it down with a mental snarl. His claymore came to his aid and reflected the light of the fireplace in red sparks as if it had already tasted the dragon’s blood. He wanted to live, live to the fullest and no mage, no magister would be able to put him down. The voice grew silent, and Fenris felt grateful for his mind’s tranquility.

The scratching of a pencil on rough paper that had accompanied his dark musing as a soft background noise had ceased, and Fenris eyed the man sitting crouched on his crate in front of him warily. Anders was chewing on the pencil’s wooden end while his gaze roamed over his nude form, then decided to add some strokes to the drawing that rested in his lap. He addressed more the paper than anything else, when he finally spoke up.

‘You know, you can quit this whenever you like. You’re clearly very uncomfortable with this whole situation and I don’t want to put you under more strain than necessary. As I said before: Take this request to Isabela and she would be delighted to help you out.’

A pleasant smile danced around his lips, and Fenris was once more aware how much he came to like it. He had pondered Anders’ suggestion, but decided against it. He wanted to get this quest going and dragging Isabela into this mess would complicate things even further – especially since the pirate queen was on a search of her own. Besides: Their relationship was of a different nature – as intimate as it might be.

‘Isabela is a…companion. A special one. I don’t want to bother her with my problems.’

‘And we are no friends, not in the slightest, that’s why I’m to be bothered with your problems.’

Before Fenris had any chance to interject, Anders continued with a chuckle. ‘Just joking. But I see: You and Bela are friends with benefits.’ His smile had turned lascivious, teeth flashing white.

Fenris wasn’t sure how much he was willing to share of his flings, but given the fact that he stood here naked as a jaybird, he could also righten the mage’s opinion a bit.

‘No, Isabela is more,’ he said, and watched as Anders’ face fell as if he’d been slapped. Had he passed on to much information? It didn’t make sense that four words let the other’s composure crumble like that – especially if he considered that the mage was usually dishing out his sexual enterprises rather openly. He’d overstepped some line and had no idea where and how.

‘I see.’ Anders’ voice was pained, his smile fake and false, eyes downcast to his drawing once more.

‘No,’ Fenris countered with determination, ’No, you don’t. She…she made me find a home in my own body again. She gave me back that part of my individuality that was taken from me for as long as I can remember. I don’t know how to describe it, but she taught me _anew_. That’s why she’s more. I don’t expect you to understand, mage.’

Anders’ head snapped up, fire in his eyes and on his breath, red-golden like the light that shone on his sword: The dragon’s blood that was yet to be spilled. ‘Believe it or not: I _do_ know. I’m sure you are well aware that we slept with the same woman – and Isabela does have that effect on people. She’s very comfortable in her own body and that… _projects_. She lures out the best in her bedmates. That’s her special ability. You’re not the only one who’d been denied free choice of their partner for the longest time, you know. I suffered pretty much the same.’

There it was again: that look of pure challenge that raised Fenris’ hackles in mere milliseconds. He straightened his posture and this time, his snarl echoed from the high walls; a distorted wail that let the mage’s eyes widen in…what? Fear? Anticipation? Fenris wasn’t sure; it could’ve been neither, or both. It didn’t matter; his blood was rushing in his ears again in rage.

‘How _dare you_ to put yourself in my shoes! Not once have you been used as a tool for bloodmagic!’ His claymore slipped free with a firm tug.

‘Not once have you been reduced to a mere piece of nice-looking flesh that was forced to bow and bend at a simple gesture of one’s hand!’ Fenris voice was cracking, almost turning somersaults in the end, as he brought his left hand up to join his other on the hilt of his weapon, the blade extending in front of him, ready to strike if needed.

The mage gazed up at him with his dragon-eyes, unflinching. 

No, he’d been mistaken, there wasn’t an ounce of fear in Anders’ stare; instead he found an unusual softness that carried a subtle kind of knowing, of kinship. Fenris wasn’t able to put his finger on it why exactly it transpired that feeling, yet it _did_. The voice in the back of his mind whispered that he knew this look of pain in the other’s eyes by heart: It stared back at him whenever he looked at a mirror. As if to reflect his thoughts, Anders’ words hit home with unerring accuracy.

‘We aren’t so different in that regard, Fenris.’ 

The tip of his claymore hit the ground again with a crunching thud. He’d missed the mage by inches, the blade digging into the earth right next to his bare feet. Fenris’ whole body shook in tremors as the words sank in so very true and honest.

Hesitantly, Anders’ hand rose up reaching for him, but sank back to his lap before he was able to touch. Fenris watched him interlacing his hands as if to refrain himself with that little gesture from starting another attempt.

_He heeds my wishes. Even though he had all the right in the world to defend himself, he didn’t._

The realization flashed through his mind, leaving guilt in its wake: He’d lashed out _again_. While Anders did his best to prove himself worthy of his trust, he’d turned into a wolf again. Fenris wasn’t able to withstand the other’s gaze anymore.

Abandoned on the floor, Anders’ drawing was laying upside down, the pencil nowhere to be seen. Fenris bent down to pick it up and gasped in wonder as he slowly took in the delicate lines. It was most definitely a drawing of him with all of his marks, but…

‘I’m nowhere nearly as beautiful as that,’ he pondered aloud.

Anders shook his head. ‘Quite on the contrary: I wasn’t able to capture you fully. It’s nothing but a rough draft. You’re more stunning in reality.’

Crouching until he was on eyelevel with the mage, his beloved claymore forgotten and degraded to a piece of decoration next to him, Fenris weighted his next words carefully, not sure if he would rouse another storm. He had to voice his thoughts nonetheless for they sat already burning on the tip of his tongue.

‘I don’t know what you’re seeing in me.’ His incredulousness was shining through, and he hoped the mage would be able to catch his honest confusion. He wasn’t fishing for compliments, far from it.

There was a spark in Anders’ eyes, but this time his smile spoke of a sadness Fenris was utterly unable to understand. When the mage averted his eyes, it felt as if he’d missed something important and no force in the world would make him understand if he let the opportunity slip by. It wasn’t a conscious gesture when his hand reached out to grasp Anders’ chin to raise his gaze again. It was true: Fenris was through with running, yet making a last stand to slay the dragon would only result in more violence. And Anders wasn’t a magister; he’d proven that over and over again. It was time for facing the man on eyelevel. 

‘Tell me. Tell me, for though I don’t understand,’ Fenris whispered, his thumb tracing the outline of the other’s sharp jawline. The sun had sunken completely by now, leaving it to the small fireplace to illuminate the room. It casted deep shadows upon the mage’s face.

 His skin was scratchy with dark stubble and Fenris noticed him swallowing, before was able to speak up.

‘Something that’s far away. Beautiful. Yet…out of reach.’ His last words were out of breath, wafting into the stale air hesitantly.

Fenris still wasn’t completely able to grasp the dimension of the man’s words, but the pure adoration reverberating in them left him speechless. Anders’ hands were still resting firmly clasped together in his lap, their tendons clearly visible under the freckled skin. Only then did Fenris notice the rather obvious bulge below. He staggered back a step and straightened to his full height, glaring at the mage as if their oddly intimate moment had never happened.

‘I’m a very dangerous creature, mage. I threatened you twice within a short span of time – yet you yearn for me, don’t you?’ Fenris wasn’t able to ban the sheer wonder from his voice. There was no need for an answer: Anders’ desire laid plain and open – not only by his hard cock but by the look of hunger in his eyes.

Red-golden like the ones of a dragon.  His right found the hilt of his claymore out of instinct.

‘It doesn’t matter. It’s not as if you would care, wouldn’t you, elf.’ Anders snatched the paper from Fenris’ left and folded it neatly before he let it disappear into one of his pouches. He looked defeated still sitting on his crate and staring at his own hands in mute surrender, and for the second time, guilt bubbled up to settle in a chokehold on Fenris throat.

Did he care for the mage? What lay below all of that deep-rooted fear of magic; that fear that let him grasp for his weapon first and foremost, banishing all other feelings long before they could possibly arise. Then Fenris remembered the mage’s smile and how he liked to see it bloom on his face. Thought of his running mouth in combination with his gawkish grace. He no longer resembled a dragon like all the other magister, but sat there with all of his faults and shortcomings and being utterly beautiful despite it all.

Fenris didn’t notice that he’d let go of his weapon once more and had taken the step forwards again, breaching the other’s personal space until Anders had to crane his neck to meet his gaze, puzzlement written all over his features.

‘Do _you_ care, Anders?’ Fenris watched his eyes widen when he called him by his name.

A bitter line appeared around his mouth when he answered.

‘More than I should.’

There was no use for any further words, Fenris decided as he let his hand trail over the other’s high cheekbones with a softness he would’ve thought himself incapable of. In the end, his fingers carded through blond tresses until half of the ponytail came loose, framing the mage’s face. Begrudgingly, Fenris found that he liked that look.  

‘What are you doing…,’ Anders asked, voice strained and eyes half-lidded while he still sat frozen to the spot, denying himself to move one, single muscle. Fenris had to admit that liked that look even more.

‘Stop talking.’

His hands clawed into a tuft of hair, pulling the mage’s head back to expose a long, white throat. A choked moan escaped the other, and heat began to pool between Fenris’ legs at that sound. The urge to rake his nails over the displayed skin grew unbearable and elf gave in to the temptation, feeling the mage shudder under him.

‘You like that, don’t you?’ Turning the man’s head to the side with subtle force, Fenris leant down to whisper into his ear, breath hot, and carrying the promise of _more_. ‘Being put into your place.’

A needy wail served as a sufficient answer.

Fenris knew he was needlessly cruel, but that open surrender coming from Anders of all people let his excitement rise to unknown heights. His cock stood red and swollen between his thighs by now and he couldn’t remember the last time he had been so aroused within such a short span of time. Not even Isabela got him hot and bothered that easily.

Anders watched him closely, waiting impatiently for what was to come next. His hands had unclasped and now his fingers flexed where they dug into the fabric of his coat. Fenris let his own wander south until it cupped the other’s erection through the layers of clothing. The strangled gasp for air was music to his ears, and he applied more pressure as it twitched in his hold like a creature with its own mind and will. The mage seemed to be rather well-equipped and Fenris wanted to see, wanted to know, so he leant down once more.

‘Touch yourself,’ he ordered, withdrawing his hands completely.

There was nothing elegant in Anders’ movements when he worked on the many layers of fabric to finally grab his member in a loose hold, stroking languidly from base to tip and down again, still leveling him with an expectant stare. Fenris hadn’t been mistaken: It really was a nice, long cock that mirrored the man’s overall physique rather well.

The voice in the back of his mind screamed at him, _what are you doing,_ but he tuned it out until it was nothing more but a faint whisper. He needed this – he wasn’t truly aware before, but the fact remained, now more prominent than ever. This was not to be the consensual, harmonic thing he had with Isabela: it was facing a dragon on different terms.

A barely reined in moan brought him back to the extraordinary sight of a horribly aroused mage sitting right in front of him, still caressing his pre-come slick cock without much preamble. Reduced to that, this dragon was ready to be slain, and that thought alone sent searing pleasure down his spine, quickening his breath. A quick glance out of the corner of his eyes made sure that his claymore was still firmly planted right behind him, waiting readily for any cases of emergency.

Fenris turned to face Anders again and cherished the blank desire that was written all over his features: Hair disheveled and hanging in loose strands, eyes wide and dark, so dark, mouth half-open and breath coming in ragged pants. The slick sounds of him working his length echoed through the high hall of the clinic, serving as an additional stimulus.  

No, he wouldn’t need his claymore to slay that dragon.

His hand found its way back to the mage’s hair, and the man welcomed the returned show of attention with a lopsided grin. Anders wanted to say something – Fenris knew him well enough by now – but words weren’t allowed in that dance they were both taking swirling fast steps in. He placed two fingers on his lips in silent warning not to speak up, yet Anders sabotaged his attempt by licking them into his mouth, slowly sucking on each digit, giving him _ideas_ of how to proceed from here on. Fenris’ mouth went dry in anticipation, never ceasing eye contact with the mage.

_What a wicked creature._

But two could play this game.

Withdrawing his fingers with more reluctance that expected, Fenris traced them over Anders’ glans lightly, gathering as much of the pearly fluid as he could before he returned to the other’s mouth to give him a taste of his own essence. He met no resistance, quite on the contrary: Anders accepted his offering with fervor, moaning helplessly around the digits.  

Originally, Fenris had planned on taking his time, yet seeing the mage so deliciously debauched let all of his best laid plans go down the drain in a rush of want and utter urgency. He wanted Anders, he wanted him now, and that thought alone should’ve rang a bell in warning, but right now, his most basic instincts were in hold of him.

‘Kneel.’

His voice was a low growl, and reluctantly, the mage let go of his fingers to slide down to the ground. He watched him in rapt attention, licking his lips for the last traces of himself, challenge and desire oddly mingled together to form a look Fenris had never seen before. No one had ever looked at him like that. He wanted to wipe it off of his face, or made it stay forever, he wasn’t sure.

Taking a final step forwards until the mage was crowded between his legs, Fenris tangled his hands into the blond strands, undoing the last bits of Anders’ ponytail. He already felt hot breath ghosting over his cock before he was able to dish out any further commands. The other’s tongue followed suit, and soon Fenris found himself buried in a mouth too hot, too wet to bear. A groan escaped him, and instead of pushing the mage off of him, he pulled him in deeper, burying his length in a throat that seemed to be made for him.

He tried to hold back, he really did, but all his good intentions siphoned down to the others’ strangled gulps around his cock and his own barely suppressed moans of pleasure. Installing a fast, deep rhythm, he forced Anders to sit there on his haunches and take what was given to him.

And taking he did.

Fenris was dimly aware that the man still stuck to his no-touch policy, but that didn’t stop him from finding his own pleasure - if the fast, hard movements of his hand on his flesh were any indication.

Maybe it was depraved to find so much pleasure in such an act, but Fenris could care less, especially if his own needs were met so skillfully. He tried to prolong their little encounter, but he already felt the tell-tale signs of his approaching orgasm at the base of his spine. With one, last thrust he pushed as deep as he dared to go, and to his amazement, the mage opened up for him even further. There was no going back from there: Being engulfed to the fullest, he emptied his seed down the willing throat with a low moan he wasn’t able to rein in. He watched Anders swallow, _and swallow_ , and that sight alone proved to be more erotic than the act itself.

The mage pulled back with a splutter and a cough, wiping his mouth, breathing heavy as if he’d ran a marathon. His softening cock hang heavy between his thighs, and belatedly Fenris noticed the puddle of come between his feet: Anders had found his completion, too, and that thought filled him with a strange satisfaction that had nothing to do with his newly sated desire.

The expanding silence should’ve been awkward, yet the mage just tucked himself back into his trousers and resumed his place on the crate, a small smile dancing around his admittedly nicely reddened lips.

Fenris hurried to don his clothes and armor, and was once more glad for his routine in doing that fast and efficient in matters of mere minutes. Being on the run for years did have its peaks. His claymore was the last item to find its place on his back, and upon turning to leave, he almost expected the mage’s eyes to shine in that red-golden hue again.

Instead, he found Anders gazing up at him, his sad little smile still in place, looking tired and forlorn.

Fenris breath caught in his throat with a sudden realization.

_Maybe there was never a dragon there to be slain in the first place._


	9. hunger

_Anders, wake up, it’s a dream. Nothing but a dream._

He knew. He knew from Justice’s voice alone: He sounded _real_ whenever he dreamt and accompanied him in the Fade, yet Anders was unable to shake off the hold this world had on him. He saw Fenris’ glyph, first on the ground, swirling languidly, then slowly creeping up to settle upon his own body, digging into his skin with a pain he deemed unimaginable before. He was screaming until he was hoarse, the agony whitening his vision.

Then, it all crumbled and went dark. He felt cold stone under him and rough hands on him, ridding him of his clothing. He heard the laughter of men and the pain returned. Back in his year of silence and darkness, his mind embraced the blackness surrounding him as a form of mercy. He knew this procedure and waited it out: It would pass faster if he ceased to struggle.

A deep voice unsettled him, for he knew it didn’t belong here. _Kneel_ , it spoke in that deep timbre he would recognize anywhere, anyhow in a heartbeat.

 _Fenris_.

Anders felt hot tears running down his cheeks when he obeyed the order. This tasted of wrongness, yet he was able to see himself crouching on his clinic’s floor at the same time, waiting for the other’s attention like a cheap whore. He was in the tower _and_ in Darktown, the pictures overlapping. _This is a dream_ , he reminded himself, he had to wake up, but instead he first felt the elf on him, then in him, and the pleasure-pain that brought him felt even worse: An abyss that swallowed him whole just to spit him out again in all of his ugliness. Fenris’ rumbled moans made his skin crawl as his body bent to the other’s wishes. Betrayal settled like deadweight in his stomach. He pinched his eyes shut as if his closed lids would be able to shield him – and somehow they _did_ , as images of his wilds flashed right before him. All these forests and the sloping hills, reaching for the horizon where their jade-green turned to blue to finally fade off.

Once more, his green beyond saved his sanity, gave him a focus that had nothing in common with the acing body he inhabited.

Something was pulling and tearing at him, a heavy weight that tugged at his shoulders and from one moment to the next the Fade’s veil disappeared and he found himself entangled in his bedroll with Fenris crouching above him, holding his upper arms in a firm grip, still slightly shaking him. Anders couldn’t fight the strong feeling of déjà vu.

‘Wake up, mage, you’re having a nightmare. It’s just a dream.’

Anders wanted to deadpan that, yes, he was well aware, but he was caught up in the other’s gaze. The same endless green as his forests and hills was staring right back at him. How had he never noticed before? Then the dream’s content crashed into his reality and let him flinch away from the elf’s touch as if burned.

He thanked the Maker that the little alcove that served as their camp here down in the Deep Roads was well-lit by torches – otherwise he would’ve roused all the magic he could possibly wield in order to defend himself. It was a small wonder that their companions were still fast asleep.

Fenris noticed his rising panic and shied away from him, landing flat on his behind rather gracelessly.

‘I won’t bring harm upon you, mage.’

No, he had never hurt him on purpose, yet the fact remained that Fenris still was the source of his current misery.

‘That hadn’t stopped you from treating me like a willing doll for your own gain. There are many forms of harm in the world, you know,’ Anders whispered. He knew he sounded bitter, but the truth behind his words was biting through the other’s barely held up countenance like the blade of a sharp dagger.

He watched his face fall, saw guilt bloom on his fine features, before rage caught up with the elf. Strangely enough, Fenris’ rage wasn’t directed at him this time: The tips of his gauntlets were digging into his own palms until small drops of red dripped to the sandy ground. His mouth opened and closed as if he was desperately trying to find the words that held him in a chokehold, only to abandon them by climbing to his feet, his whole frame pulled tight as a drum string. He resumed his watch-out spot on a boulder, staring in the mid-distance without having uttered a single sound.

Anders groaned in annoyance and rolled over to his side. Fine. _Fine_ , no communication about what had happened between them then.

And why should he, he didn’t care.

Anders had to bear the hurtful consequences of being degraded to a mere piece of flesh again. It wasn’t as if he wouldn’t be used to it by now, but he thought that he’d left this part of his life far behind. He swallowed down the mirthless laugh that wanted to bubble up his throat. Their tryst in his clinic only made things worse: Physically, he’d found release, Maker, he enjoyed it beyond words, yet what tore at his insides was the fact that Fenris had used him like the many others before him.

His nightmare flashed before his eyes again. He was nothing but a nice, warm body that bent, and sometimes, broke, under hands that demanded his consent. He granted it because, otherwise, he would’ve had to bear consequences far worse.

It would’ve been so nice if Fenris would’ve cared. Cared just a tiny, little bit.  He had tried so hard to meet the other’s wishes that he’d completely forgotten about his own: He wished for Fenris’ caring. His undivided attention. His honest approval.

_His love. It’s his love you seek, my friend. He gave you his lust, his hunger for pleasure. That’s a pity._

Anders wanted to scream at Justice to shut it, but his words had already hit the mark: Yes, he wished for Fenris’ love above all else and was fobbed off with the bleak need for physical satisfaction. Anders was glad that he was facing the cold stone wall so that no one was able to see him crying in silence. Maker, the truth hurt, it hurt so much.

Sleep didn’t come again, and he waited impatiently until Hawke roused them to continue their search for an exit out of his hell hole – but what the Deep Roads decided to keep, they kept, Anders knew by heart. It would be nothing short of a miracle if they really made it out of here. He had heard of grey wardens who simply sat down to wait for the end when they got separated from their party, succumbing to hunger and darkness.

He told his feet to march on with insistence instead.

 All of them had lost track of how long they’d been underground, the Deep Roads stripping them off of their feeling for time, but the constant hunger was worse. Anders was able to draw some energy from his spirit to a certain degree, yet at the end of each day it never proved to be nearly enough.

Hawke seemed to suffer the most, the starvation turning him cranky and ill-tempered, and even ever-talking Varric had gone silent. Maybe that was the most terrifying thing of all: When someone like him had gone mute, their situation must be dire. He even stopped his rants of how to best murder his brother in cold blood once he would get him into his hands.

The elf fared the best given the circumstances, and Anders silently wondered whether his brands provided extra support in times like that. Or maybe he was just more used to hunger and deprivations. He didn’t even dare to ask.

Fenris continued to avoid him like the plague throughout their march, but being thrown into the expedition forced them closer than he obviously would’ve liked. They navigated around each other as far apart as physically possible: Normally, Anders would take the lead of their gang due to his ability to sense darkspawn and Fenris would guard the rear end. Like that, at least Anders wouldn’t have to look at the elf.

_Not looking at him won’t spare you the pain, my friend._

Anders heaved a sigh that brought him no relief. Justice was right: He had to overcome that burning ache somehow, close it off and cram it into a corner where it was left to rot and decay. Yet the more he tried to detach himself form that feeling, the more prominent it got. This wasn’t an infuriation, a fleeting thing that would deform and wither with time as it had done with Karl, Anders was sure, and he damned himself for that knowledge.

A flickering in the air right in front of him tore him from his musings: It indicated approaching profanes. They weren’t darkspawn per se, yet they took their place in the wide spectrum of tainted creatures nonetheless, and that made them detectable to his warden blood.

Too bad that that could be said vice versa, as a hoard assembled themselves right in front of him, knocking his staff from his grasp with a forceful blow.

He scolded himself that his thoughts had wandered off to Fenris again, leaving him inattentive and without focus.

‘Anders! Watch out!’

Hawke was dashing past him, taking care of the creature that had attacked him first, yet Anders found himself wrestled to the ground by another two of them. Thank the Maker for the fact that he was able to use his ice-spells without the assistance of a staff. Cone of cold saved his sorry ass and bought him time to stagger to his feet again – or at least tried to, for his vision was oddly distorted and his legs refused to bear his weight. Belatedly he noticed that he’d got blood in his eyes from a deep gash on his forehead. Healing himself was like breathing – it came naturally and once he wiped his eyes, he couldn’t believe what he was witnessing: Fenris was standing above him, fending off every profane that dared to come within the range of his sword, defending him from the heavy onslaught.

Had he lagged behind to shield him instead of joining Hawke at the frontlines? That wasn’t part of their usual choreography, but normally he as a mage wouldn’t take the helm of their party either. Anders knew it was definitely time for some decent improvising the moment Fenris took a stab to his flank that forced him to stumble. Another slice to the vulnerable inner side of his upper arm let him drop his claymore with a cry of pain, yet he didn’t vacant his spot above him still using his body as a shield, his marks alight, glowing like a blue firecracker, his clawed hands extended to phase through another approaching stone ghost.

That stubborn bastard. He would get himself killed if he continued like that.

Anders slithered sideways to make a grab for the fallen sword when another profane attacked the elf from his far right. His muscles were screaming in protest under the weight of the weapon, yet they followed his command nonetheless: He cleaved the offending creature in two, neat heaps of rubble, channeling his magic into the long blade in the process.

It was harder to direct a spell with a utensil not meant to hold and release magic, but it worked all the same. Fenris’ claymore seemed to be especially good for using winter’s breath, Anders found out, but, damn, that thing was _heavy_. His stamina wasn’t made for that and using his mana reserves along with his strikes let him tire within minutes, while the creatures still advanced. He wasn’t able to uphold this fighting style any longer, and he dimly wondered how the Arcane Warriors of old had managed to do. By now, he’d taken a blow to his thigh that burned like hell and limited his movements even further. When a stab to his ribs forced all air from his lungs, Anders was positive that his last hour must’ve come.

What he didn’t expect was the profane he’d battled to  drop to the ground with an ugly crunch, its head speared by the sharp end of what Anders instantly recognized as his newly acquired Stone’s Breath staff. Wielding it like an ordinary spear, Fenris stepped over the fallen creature to fell the next with a graceful turn of the staff’s scythe.

Anders had to laugh at the irony of it all: Here they were, trading their weapons and fighting battles originally meant to be fought by the respective other. And, the ultimate cherry on the cake _: It fucking worked_. The meagre, stony remains of the profanes around them stared up at them in mutilated wonder. Anders thigh gave out right under him and he sagged to the ground like a sack of flour, breathing heavy. Leaning on his borrowed staff, Fenris clutched his injured side and settled slowly on a fallen profane right next to him.

‘That was an impressive stunt, mage. I didn’t know you had it in you to wield a two-hander.’

‘Me neither,’ Anders admitted. ‘Thank you for coming to my aid though.’

Ah. There it was again: That hesitant look on the elf’s face as he struggled for words once more.

‘I’m…I’m not good when it comes to speaking my mind. But…I do not wish to see you hurt. Or worse.’

Anders sat there dumbfounded. That sounded an awful lot like an ‘I do care’. This was too good to be true. No, chances were high that he misconstrued Fenris words to what he would like to hear; put a meaning into them that was nonexistent. He squashed that glimmer of hope before it could take root.

‘You don’t have to guard me out of some ill-placed commitment. I’m well aware that you don’t give a damn about me. I’m just…useful.’ There. The bitter words lay finally out in the open. It was liberation to finally get rid of them, and only then did Anders notice how much they had poisoned him from within. He knew, he was riling up the elf again, but, Maker, he needed to get this out of his system – otherwise it would consume him more than the greatest hunger ever could.

To his amazement, Fenris remained silent for a few, incredibly long seconds, then wetted his lips as if to taste his words before there were to leave his mouth.

‘I should’ve known. Back in the clinic I mean…I should have heeded your wishes as you did mine. I did use you and I’m deeply sorry for doing so. I fought so hard to get rid of my fear of magic that I lost sight of what I did to you. I acted on impulse.’ He visibly swallowed before he continued. ‘What I did was shameful and I have no idea how to make it up to you. It’s…I…you said, you cared for me more than you should…’ Another pause, another moment of tense hesitation. Leveling his gaze to see right into Anders’ eyes, his words were barely audible.

‘So do I.’

Once more, Anders was reminded of the endless green of the wilds, his beautiful green beyond and it took a moment for Fenris’ admission to sink in.

A voice chirped up in his mind that was definitely not Justice. In fact, it sounded suspiciously like Merrill. It murmured _the stars aren’t that far away, making a grasp at them doesn’t need to be that much of a hard task._

His heart wanted to leave the constrictions of his body to soar to heaven, meeting the star that shone so very brightly.

The moment Anders wanted to speak up, Hawke rounded the corner, a half-unconscious Varric slung over his shoulders.

‘ _Guys_! I could’ve used some fucking help over there,’ he complained as he lowered the dwarf to the ground. ‘Watcha doing here by the way? Having a late afternoon coffee party without your rogues?’ He graced them both with a hard stare, and Anders rarely felt so much kindship with Fenris as he did in that moment, because the elf ducked his head exactly the same way he did.

‘Sorry, Hawke, we both got knocked out. Kinda.’ It was only a half-lie and their still bleeding wounds underlined that even further.

An Elfroot potion was pushed into Fenris’ hand and the mana concoction that landed in Anders’ lap almost rolled from his grasp. Knocking back a healing potion on his own before dribbling some into Varric’s mouth, Hawke’s smile was back on them bright and joking.

‘Definitely time for a late afternoon coffee party. Drink up, boys! Andraste’s sweet, pink panties, what would I give for a slice of real cake right now,’ he mused, and after a second of deep thought, he continued, ’Scratch the slice: I take the whole cake.’

Anders noticed Fenris’ eyes on him, so he put up the first true smile in what must’ve been _ages_ , before he lifted the small bottle, toasting in his direction.

‘Cheers, elf.’

The wide smile that answered him made his stomach flip. Lifting his own flask, Fenris saluted back.

‘Cheers, mage. Cheers.’

Hawkes laughter echoed down the hallways until it got lost in the labyrinth of cold stone.

 

 

 

 


	10. a day of thank you's

He didn’t belong here.

Fenris dreaded each step he took. The Vhenadahl loomed over him like a bad omen and only added to the hard and questioning stares he was graced with. He should be one of them, yet he _wasn’t_. Knowing the city elves’ fate by heart, Fenris couldn’t fight the feeling of disconnection and uprooted-ness nonetheless – and they sensed his distance, his estrangement, too, and interpreted it as aloofness. He ignored them as best as he could, striding straight to the russet-colored door across the place.

Not that the upcoming meeting would be any more pleasurable: Being around Merrill always let his age-old fear bloom anew, no matter how charming and caring she might appear: She was a bloodmage through and through and no sweet smile in the world would be able to mask that fact.

Though…

Merrill did have her admirable traits, her special gifts that remained untainted by her dark magic – and one of these was actually the reason Fenris found himself standing right in front of her a few hours after his return from the Deep Roads. He watched her smile rise on her pretty face and stood stiff as a poker as she flung her arms around his neck in overenthusiastic greeting.

‘You made it back! Mother Mythal did have a watchful eye on you! Welcome back, Fenris!’

‘I don’t know whose Gods might’ve guarded me, but I appreciate your welcome,’ he said, freeing himself from her embrace with an awkward twist and a forced smile. Open displays of affection were hard to stomach for him on a more mutual basis, and being on the receiving end of Merrill’s hugs made him skittish. He downplayed his uneasiness and the bitter words that wanted to bubble up by getting to the point of his visit.

‘I hope you didn’t have too much bother with my…project.’

Her laughter rang across the place like the chime of a little bell. ‘Fenris, it’s a plant. Plants aren’t a bother, they are a pleasure. And I did take good care of your foster child.’

With that said she turned on her heel and returned with the clay pot a few moments later. This time, Fenris’ smile came naturally as he regarded the sapling with fondness. It had begun to sprout a few days before the expedition’s start, and Fenris was at a loss at what to do with the plant for the time he was gone. Begrudgingly, Merrill and her fine hand for everything green was the most obvious option, and after pondering a night over wine and bread, he pulled himself together and asked for her skills in babysitting the small oak. Initially, she’d looked at him as if he’d grown another head, then accepted gladly and promised to see after it with the outmost care – and indeed, the sapling had grown at least an inch since his departure.

‘Thank you…’ Fenris sounded lame to his own ears, and he damned himself silently that he hadn’t planned ahead on how exactly to pay the girl back for her work. The thought of owing her something, something she could possibly lay claim on settled like a brick in his stomach.

‘You’re welcome. I’m glad you came for my help at all. We aren’t always on the same page of…things. But…I…I’m glad you came to me at all.’ Her eyes were ashine with so much genuine mirth it left him speechless for a long moment. His usual harshness towards her had prevented soft agreements like that one so far – and Fenris still wasn’t sure whether that was supposed to be a good thing.

 _Maybe a simple ‘thanks’ will indeed do the job here,_ Fenris mused.

He took the pot with a small nod and a smaller smile. He had already turned to leave, when Merrill spoke up again.

‘Oh, and tell Anders that I’d started the search on your glyph! His drawing is very detailed!’

Fenris felt the blood drain from his face to settle hot in the tips of his ears. The mage had shown her _the_ _drawing_. Of course he had, he even told him directly that he would, yet the pure and undulated embarrassment that rushed through him took him off guard nonetheless – let alone the memories of the actions that accompanied said drawing. His blush was stretching down his neck by now, and Merrill began to cast him worried glances.

‘You look a little sick. Are you not feeling well?’

‘’m fine,’ he stammered. _What force of eloquence_ , he scolded himself, but thanked Andraste’s mercy that the bloodmage was oblivious to so, so many things that held a more _intimate_ meaning. Merrill had quite obviously not connected the dots how Anders acquired the knowledge about the glyph’s fundamental layout.

‘Okay, if you say so. Maybe it’s the sun! After weeks in the dark, the light can surely make one dizzy! Oh, and by the way, Anders actually gave me a copy of the drawing!’ That said she began fumbling in a side-pouch fishing out some neatly folded paper. 

Fenris braced himself for what was surely to be unveiled again right in front of his eyes. This was nothing he wanted to discuss while standing on a threshold of a bloodmage. Or at all.

Beet-red.

He must have gone beet-red by now. Maker, he was so pathetic, blushing like delicate virgin just because of a few revealing lines on a piece of paper. But it was more than that, and his mind screamed at him in rising crescendo: He’d made himself vulnerable in the front of a mage again – and this one practiced bloodmagic for sure. His grip on the little potted plant let chips of clay flake to the ground.

When Merrill unfolded the offending piece of paper, Fenris tried to repress the urge to laugh out aloud at the same time as a deep sigh of relief wanted to escape. In the end both mixed up to an unappealing splutter: Instead of the elaborated drawing of him in all of his bare ass naked glory, a simple, yet defined drawing of his marks’ in perfect abstraction was laid out in front of him.

Never before had he thanked Andraste more for small mercies than he did right now. Anders had actually taken time and effort to transfer the original drawing to a basic worksheet that was actually accurate _and_ saved his dignity on top of that. He had to make it up to him somehow, too.

It seemed to be a day for ‘thank-you’s’.

Merrill’s worried words grounded him in reality again.

‘Are you sure you don’t have a heat stroke? You’re all red and sweaty! Mighty mother, I wish I could do healing magic,’ she said, wringing her hands in misery. Then she spun on her axis like startled deer and disappeared into her hut, only to return in a blink of an eye again.

A wet cloth was pressed to Fenris’ forehead and he jerked in surprise, his potted plant almost gone from his grip.

‘I can go and fetch Anders! He’ll know what is to be done.’ Her babbling was soothing, Fenris decided as water dribbled down the side of his face to finally soak into his tunic. He pressed the oak to his belly with his left and grabbed her hand holding the wet rag. He only gentled his grip after she flinched under the pressure. 

Merrill meant no harm – quite on the contrary, Fenris was well aware _. She will bring harm upon others even though she intends not to_ , the nagging voice in the back of his mind insisted.

 _But not today_ , he answered back out of spite.

_Not today._

Today was the day of thank-you’s.

‘I’m fine, Merrill,’ he said with resolution and a friendliness that tasted foreign on his tongue. ‘Thank you for your worries, but they are not necessary. I just got…kind of worked up because this search for my brand’s origin is of importance to me. That’s all.’

His gaze roamed to the tree shadowing all of the alienage. Suddenly, it didn’t look like a bad omen, casting its shadows along, but nothing than an impressive tree that brought life and shelter to a place that was devoid of comfort and respect. He thought of Anders’ majestic oak tree and the pot holding its small offspring grew heavy in his hold. This tiny plant held the potential to grow into something so powerful and liberating. He pressed it closer to his body as if to defend it from all the bad in the world. He seemed to have a lot of misconceptions on things he used to take for granted.

Merrill was still watching him out of those soulful moss-green eyes of hers. Finally, she nodded. ‘I see,’ she said. The most noncommittal answer imaginable, yet it came across true and without any ulterior motives. ‘I’ll do my best.’

Fenris let go of her hand and he dimly noticed that they were still standing on the threshold of her weathered hut.

‘I don’t really know how to remunerate you for that,’ he said. Maybe he could start with a small token of appreciation? ‘How…I…I could use some decent food after eating mushrooms for weeks, so how about a trip to the market? You are free to choose whatever dish you like as reparations for your services.’

‘That would be wonderful!’

Merrill was beaming as she led him across the alienage, her happy fussing never ceasing: A chatting sparrow in its hedge of greenery. The fleeting thought hit him that, maybe, in another life with kinder stars of fate on both of them, he would’ve come to fall in love with her instead of opposing her no matter which path she took. There was no room in this one for something like that.

_You’re not able to love, no matter whom._

The nasty voice was back, sounding distinctively like Danarius this time and a shudder ran down Fenris’ spine in revulsion.

They rounded the corner of the old slum’s main place, when a commotion right in front of Hawke’s, well, no, his uncle’s home stopped them dead in their tracks. It wasn’t that unusual to find Hawke in the midst of turmoil, but this time it contained a whole squad of Templars plus their Captain-Commander.

Merrill shied away out of instinct, hiding behind a pile of rubble, casting frightened glances at the group, though refused to retreat. Fenris gestured to her to stay hidden as he stepped up to the crowd.

‘You have no right to take her, Cullen.’ Hawke voice was a low growl, clearly one step away from an open attack.

‘You’re sorely mistaken, Serah, and I think you are well aware of that. The only reason I won’t imprison you for hiding an apostate is her cooperation and your admittedly honest help in matters concerning the Gallows. Stay back and refrain yourself from turning this into a bigger scene than necessary. A mage’s place is in the Circle.’

For a fleeting moment, Fenris was sure they were talking about Anders, and a dread settled in his bones colder than winter’s breath, but then he noticed him standing in the shadows of the backstreet, his staff already drawn. Their eyes met, but the short glance held no comfort: It wasn’t golden-eyed Anders who was looking back at him, but a creature that had no place in this world. Fenris had encountered this being before briefly, back in the ruins when they faced Kelder: He was able to taste its murderous intent across the place again, only this time its focus was directed on the horde of Templars leading Bethany away to the Gallows. This wasn’t Justice either, he was sure of it. In the end, it didn’t matter. He’d stopped it once, he would stop it again.

Hawke had started a shouting match with Cullen that thankfully bound all eyes when Fenris spanned the space separating them.

‘Stand back, creature,’ he hissed, suddenly painfully aware that he was still holding his potted plant instead of a drawn weapon, but his snarl did his job and not-quite-Anders stumbled back a step, startled. He stared down at him, eyes aflame in cold blue as black smoke wafted around him.

_‘Why are you standing in my way again, elf. This is not your battle to fight.’_

That voice. There was nothing human about it anymore, it resounded hollow and haunted. Fenris’ marks activated out of their own accord, the pain an almost welcomed distraction from the horror that unfurled right in front of him. He’d vowed to himself to kill Anders should he took the final step and transform to an abomination – and the mage was one hair’s width away from that.

‘I demand to speak to Anders, demon. He will see that I’m trying to spare you a fight you are bound to loose.’ Fenris took another step forwards, inching the other deeper into the shadows and out of the Templar’s view.

It was a test of will: Something was holding the creature back from smiting him with his staff or using magic, and on the other hand, Fenris had yet to abandon his plant in order to grab his sword. Anders had to be somewhere deep down and all he had to do was lure him out again.

‘Listen, mage, if you meddle now and those Templars are getting aware of whom you are and, more important, what you are, no force in all of Thedas will be able to save your life. I dislike seeing Bethany being sent to the Gallows, but it’s not worth throwing your life away for,’ he said with a direness that surprised even himself. ‘You won’t change anything for the better if you die a martyr’s death.’

Something flashed in Anders’ eyes and Fenris found himself unable to breathe, when his back hit the wall with a thud and he clawed at the wrists holding him in place, his little pot lying broken by his feet.

_‘What do you know about the plight of the mages?! You would make us all tranquil if it would be within your power.’_

The truth was: Fenris would. Their ideologies were polar opposites with no common ground, except for the admittedly emotional bond that had developed between the two of them despite of all. Their conflicting mindsets were the elephant in the room and they had to face right now or the situation would escalate further.

‘That’s true; I don’t care about the fate of the mages for they had been dictating all of my life,’ Fenris said. ‘The difference is, remember: I do care for _you_. That’s why I’m standing in your way. You’re on your righteous crusade as well as am I, and I promise I won’t hold you back even though I would love to, but I will step in when you do something so suicidal.’

There it was.

His admission might be the only way to banish this creature of rage and vengeance, and, indeed, Anders’ grip on him grew slack until his large hands merely rested upon his shoulders. The moment the smoke dissolved, the warm brown hue returned to his eyes and Anders bowed his head to the side to hide the shame that lay in open display there. His hands slid off, and Fenris mourned their loss even though his mind tried its hardest to remind him of his no-touch-policy.

‘’m sorry. I…lost control. I…I just got so angry…and Justice, he has…changed…’

Fenris didn’t like where this was heading and he sensed that this was the next elephant they had to tame and get out of the fucking room in order to make this work. Whatever _this_ might be – he still didn’t dare to think of it as a relationship.

‘Thank you for stopping me from doing something reckless.’ This time, Anders was looking at him, all shame gone.  

Another ‘thank you’.  Fenris seemed to collect them like shells on the beach today.

He nodded with a tired smile as he dragged Anders away to Darktown and into its relative safety. The mage followed without complaint and in a silence Fenris would’ve found troubling on any other day, but this near-escalation sat heavy in both of their stomachs.

 

Unseen by both of them, Merrill crouched over the small broken pot once the commotion dissolved and regarded the remains in sorrow.

‘This hadn’t been your fault, little one,’ she said to the plant as she scooped it up in one hand, sorting through the shards of broken clay. ‘You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s nothing personal, he still likes you very much. He just…likes his human a tad more, that’s all.’

Cradling the sapling to her belly, she headed back to the alienage, still talking in a hushed voice to the obviously deeply startled plant.

 


	11. wrong turn on the road

_You won’t change anything for the better if you continue to drink yourself stupid, my friend._

Anders was far from getting stupid, yet the cheap liquor that warmed him from within and coursed through his bloodstream in pulsing waves did its job to tune out Justice and his nagging quite well – actually, the spirit was the very reason Anders decided to drown his problems in Darktown brandy after he’d parted from the elf with the flimsy excuse of needing to be alone.

The afternoon’s incidents had left him in turmoil and he had yet to find a way to sort through that mess. He had changed. They both had - inseparable as they are, they were bound to influence and alter each other, but Anders had not imagined that change to be that drastic in his wildest dreams. Justice wasn’t his righteous warrior that spurred him on any more, but had the fateful potential to morph into that being of blind rage that was hardly stoppable.

Conversation with Justice was a tricky task per se, because they were merged beyond thought and word, but the urge to scream at his spirit that _he_ was the very reason he decided to get himself drunk was overpowering. Anders felt him retreat further into the back of his mind like an animal licking its wounds. Maybe he was just as shaken as Anders was.

Swallowing another gulp from his glass, he settled deeper into his cot, drawing the worn cover around him even though it wasn’t that cold yet. After his year in solitary, he rarely felt the need to be alone, but right now, he would give a small fortune to have his mind undivided.

_I did hurt you and I have no idea how._

Justice’s voice was thin, barely there: Cautious not to rouse sleeping dogs. A bitter smile crept onto Anders’ lips. The silence of his quarters hung heavy on his shoulders, so he took a deep breath and spoke into the candle-lit dimness around him.

‘You didn’t mean to. Neither did I. Yet…we both took a wrong turn on our road and I don’t know how to head back or where to meet anew. It’s a bit as if we’d lost each other.’

It was the first time he’d approached his spirit like that: Verbally and direct. Maybe a confrontation like that was long overdue, and Justice’s long silence bore testimony to that.

‘You almost made me do things I would’ve come to regret,’ Anders said, his words hovering in the air like a moth dancing around a flame.

_We are both on our way to bring freedom to all mages._

Maybe that statement did hold its own truth, but it didn’t change the outcomes: their thirst for vengeance had almost let the situation derail.

‘It was Fenris who stopped us from starting a fight we would’ve lost otherwise. The both of us even attacked him…’ His breath came short. Maker, he couldn’t stomach the thought of hurting the elf in a fit of cold rage.

_He stood in our way. Again. He brings nothing but distraction and turmoil, yet you hold him to such high standards. He did hurt you, but you forgave him in a blink of an eye. He will bring harm upon you. He’s a wolf that bites the hand that feeds it._

‘He fucking saved our ass! And he’s learned his lesson and apologized! And he’s no animal!’ His own voice boomed through the small chamber, bouncing off the walls distorted and he cringed when he noticed the unobscured rage that was the very reason they had this spat. ‘I love him, remember?’ Anders said softer, regret lacing his words.

_The elf has yet to live up to his words and show you the respect you deserve._

The small candle on his nightstand flickered, then stilled again. Anders wasn’t able to look away from its licking flame.

‘We’re on our way there.’

Anders took it as a small victory when there was no immediate answer coming from Justice.

’What had happened today though…You’ve changed,’ he spoke into the silence surrounding them. ‘No, _we’ve_ changed. It was me and my rage that turned you into Vengeance, and I don’t know how to undo this. I’m sorry, my friend, I’ve…failed you.’

_I’m still me, Anders. Unchanged._

‘Yes, but only until my rage corrupts you and ushers us both to precipices that could easily be our downfall long before we are able to reach our goal.’

Anders couldn’t help, but sigh in defeat as he noticed Justice retreating back to mull over his words. Victory and defeat had this tendency to lie so painfully close next to each other.  

The alcohol tasted sour in his mouth and he decided to wash it away with another deep gulp of brandy. He smiled to himself without an ounce of mirth. Another contradiction, another wrong turn on the road.

‘Fuck,’ he swore, but the word sounded hollow. It brought no relief. Eyeing the last remains of his drink in disgust, he downed it in one go.

Slowly, the world began to sway and dance, and with the ring-around-the-rosy came a dull silence that settled like lead in his bones. Justice wasn’t completely gone, but he lingered at the frayed edges of his consciousness, reduced to be a bystander. Anders wished him gone for some time, yet he feared the loneliness all the same. Here he sat, bemoaning his poor fate. Pathetic.

Then he remembered Fenris and his little smiles, remembered his stammered words that spoke of care and caress, and that thought alone accomplished what all the brandy wasn’t able to: he forgot about the world and its cruel realities for a while. He just saw Fenris and his bright eyes as green as his beloved beyond. Anders melted into the cushions, drowning himself in this thought-world that narrowed down to that wondrous creature. Here was no room for Vengeance, no room for Justice; no wrong turn on a road he didn’t know the destination of.

In his wake-dream Fenris carded his fingers through his hair again, tugged at his scalp until the sensation pooled hot in his stomach and below. His breath ghosted over Anders’ exposed throat like it did back that evening in the clinic: huffed gasps of air that didn’t hide the elf’s arousal. Fenris hadn’t been very vocal, but his breath had given him away.

Anders had lost count how many times he’d replayed this scene in order to get himself off and it had yet to lose its appeal. He felt his lips stretch to form a wide, silly smile. He planned on indulging in that sweet memory a bit more, even though the alcohol did blur it a bit. It also heightened its sensuality and the sheer excitement that rushed through him took him off guard. His hand had long found its way into his smalls and groped his length with urgency.

Fenris had grown hard really fast and Anders still prided himself in being the reason for it. It didn’t matter that he himself had been aroused for even longer: nothing furthered along this sense of power over their lover even if one was on their knees better than that. The elf had wanted him, wanted him badly and this knowledge alone set him on fire anew. The brandy’s sour taste turned bitter and he was almost able to imagine it being Fenris’ lyrium-spiced seed. His cock twitched in his hand and he stroked down with low moan.

What would he give to repeat this under more fortunate circumstances – and preferably in a soft bed. Or up against a wall. Maybe even on his desk. Now that he thought about it: He wasn’t choosy as long as Fenris had his hands on him and, even more preferably, other body parts _in_ him.

Maker, that thought alone coursed through him like molten lava, and Anders gathered his precome to spread it over his glans with the twirling of his thumb before he fisted his cock in a firm hold, his whole boy convulsing under the pleasure. Fenris’ growled words resurfaced along with the motion.

 _‘You like that, don’t you,’_ they said in that deep timbre, and Anders was able to feel the other’s intense stare on his skin almost bodily.

‘Yes…ah, Maker…yes…’ His own voice sounded unnaturally loud in the small room. He was pumping himself in earnest right now, his hand a blur on his swollen flesh. There was no use in holding back his needy wails, so he let go of all inhibitions as his body sang under his own caresses.

_‘Being put into your place.’_

Fenris’ domineering words still had quite an impact on his libido, and along with the memory of the elf’s hard cock being shoved down his throat, his arousal reached a new peak. His breath came short just as it did back then when he was kneeling on the floor and was forced to take the others length to the best of his abilities and almost choking on it despite of all.

Biting down on the back of his hand, Anders tried to rein in his approaching orgasm. The way Fenris had looked down at him when he watched him pleasuring himself…damn, that gaze alone would’ve been enough to let him come untouched: Searing hot, completely focused on him and his hand that moved over his cock in pure abandon. Then the elf had buried himself deep down to his throat again, using him as he pleased, and Anders let him.

He wanted to gulp for air, but instead bit down harder on his hand as the memory proved to be too intense, too all-consuming. His balls drew up and his spine arched off the cot as he drifted through ecstasy with a choked off scream - a wave that crested and then crashed upon a distant shore to dissolve into nothingness.

Warm seed splattered onto his chest and chin and he sagged back into his bedding in exhaustion. His hand wrung out the last drops along with the fading memory and as darkness engulfed him, Fenris’ words reverberated through his half-asleep mind – this time as a memory from their conversation in the Deep Roads:

 _‘I do care’_ , they said, and those words heightened his afterglow to an ethereal experience in which his body swam along to dissolve completely in the end.

 

An insistent tapping to the clinic’s front door jerked him awake in what felt like only a few minutes later, though golden light was already flittering through the blinds of his window.

He staggered to his feet only to feel his stomach protest in waving nausea while his head throbbed with shrieking pain. Through the merry-go-round in his head, he noticed Justice stirring awake from the far corner of his mind.

_Hurry, it could be an emergency!_

And, indeed, his spirit’s words fully woke him with a bang. He swallowed down the rising bile and grabbed the doorframe for support, while he dragged his pants up until they settled more or less where they belonged. He’d forgotten where his tunic had landed the night before, so whatever this emergency might be: He had to face it shirtless. Making a grab for his staff just in case his morning surprise proved to be a squad of Templars, he crossed the clinic on bare feet and yanked the door open with more force than necessary.

Anders had expected a whole lot of things to be faced with: aforementioned Templars, bleeding Carta thugs fresh from a fight, coughing Darktown folk with screaming children in tow. Maybe Hawke coming for him to drag him along on one of his quests.

Standing in front of him though was Merrill, bright and cheery - and completely out of context. He lowered his staff as he continued to stare at her dumbfounded.

‘Good morning Anders,’ she said, breaking the unspoken spell of paralysis. ‘At least you are already up! I tried to wake Fenris, but he waved me away through the closed door with a snarl. I guess he drank too much last night and was horribly hungover!’ Her giggle rang across the high hall of his clinic. ‘Just imagine him: grumpy and with a horrible head ache, having bed-hair that sticks in all directions! That would be quite a sight!’

Did his mouth hang open? It clearly felt like it. Had she even taken a second to look at him? He was the physical manifestation of the very picture she just described – minus the elf-part and the snarl. With rising horror, Anders glanced down his front where the smeared yet dry remains of his nightly activities still clung to his skin. He turned on his heel, but not without throwing a raspy ‘Come in,’ over his shoulder. Thank the Maker Merrill seemed to be completely unshaken by his messy appearance as she padded along, never ceasing her soft chatting.

‘I’m sorry that I’ve woken you, but as I said before: Fenris wasn’t to be roused as easily as you. And I wanted to speak to you, too.’

Anders filled his washing basin and started to scrub his face and chest until his skin went red and the soap stung in his eyes. He washed his hair to let it dry in the warm morning air, combing through the strands with his fingers. Merrill didn’t mind his half-nakedness and sloppy morning grooming, but sat herself down next to him, watching him with patience.

Once he was through with his routine, he felt more like himself, even though his head still throbbed.

‘Breakfast?’ Merrill had produced some peaches out of the basket she’d carried with her, and Anders’ stomach grumbled in delight when she handed one over with a smile.

‘Thank you. Best breakfast in ages.’

‘Sweet Mother, you aren’t much of a morning person, are you? You have yet to speak one complete sentence!’

Instead of an answer, he smiled back at her as he devoured the fruit.

‘Why were you at Fenris’? It’s not that the two of you…meet. At all. Please don’t get me wrong, it’s just so uncommon.’

Her smile faltered a bit, but she recovered quickly. ‘I’m the guardian of his pet project. It got caught up in some case of friendly fire yesterday, though I was able to salvage it. I wanted to hand it back to him, but maybe you can do this favor way better than I ever could.’

Only then did Anders take notice of the small plant sitting in her basket next to the paper bag of peaches. Its delicate leaves were nicked and torn in some places but otherwise the plant seemed to be healthy – and with a flash of pain through his forehead, realization came crashing in like an ill-tempered bronto: It was the very item Fenris had carried yesterday when he saved him from his suicide mission. He hadn’t seen it fall and break in his fit of vengeance, yet it was the very same plant without a doubt – and he already had an inkling where it stemmed from. _Literally_.

Merrill freed it from the basket to sit it down in Anders’ lap with the care of a mother handing over her newborn.

‘It’s of great importance to him,’ she said with the silent solemnity that let the Dalish keeper shine through once more. ‘And I think it’s…enchanted. I…I can’t be sure for though it’s still so young, but there’s an air around it that speaks of old magic,’ and with a pause, she added, ’The good kind of. I wonder if he knows about that.’

Anders knew.

And furthermore he decided to keep the how and why's the acorn came into Fenris’ hand their little secret for it would bear too much of the elf’s confession.

‘I see,’ he said, eying the sapling with fondness. ‘I’ll hand it over to him as fast as possible, I promise.’

Suddenly, the world seemed to be back on track. All the dissonances of the day before had faded to a distant echo.

‘Oh, there’s one more thing I almost forgot!’ Merrill was rummaging in her basket again to produce a small yet heavy tome from the bottom of it. ‘Take good care of this one too. It’s a volume on elven enchantments, and it could help you with your search on Fenris’ marks.’

Anders thumbed through the book in excitement only to have his high hopes crushed once he noticed it to be written completely in elven tongue.

‘I don’t speak elven, Merrill…’

Her laugh was good-natured and true, without a trace of mocking. ‘Yes, I’m well aware, but your bright elven star upon the universe’s canopy does.’

He was not blushing, neither were there tears of joy. _No way in hell_. It was the soap still in his eyes.

‘Thank you,’ he managed after a moment.

None of yesterday’s problems were solved or sorted, yet Anders had that distinctive feeling of having regained his sense of purpose, of direction. He was back on his road, walking on his own, two lanky legs.

As if this thought had prompted Justice, his spirit’s voice rang through his mind, duplicating what he felt in his bones.

_Let’s go ahead, my friend._

It was a long, winding road but they wouldn’t lose sight of it again.


	12. soft edges

In hindsight, Fenris had no idea why he accepted Hawke’s request to accompany him to the Wounded Coast at all: His head hurt, his limbs were heavy and his mood was beyond what Varric would label as ‘broody’, yet he couldn’t let Hawke down, could he. He overdid it the last night, dined on too much wine and little else, let himself be consumed by his thoughts that kept him up until sunrise. He had tried to shut up his reeling mind with more alcohol and, well, _physical pleasures_ , but neither brought him the release he wished for. Not that the wine had been bad, or his little indulgence to the images of the mage wasn’t able to satisfy him – far from it.  Again, a tingling ran down his spine to settle in his loins at the mere thought of the erotic display the man had provided and how it fueled his desires since then.

What Fenris quite desperately tried to align were the three aspects of his very being that coursed in endless loops around Anders to no avail: His body screamed for fulfillment, for pleasure, his heart for something he shied away to name ‘love’, and his mind berated him for throwing his trust at an abomination that was bound to hurt him in the worst way imaginable.

A quick glance over his shoulder found said source of his nightly escapades and mental distress in deep conversation with Hawke, and something tore at Fenris’ insides at the crushing realization that they would make a great couple: Hawke with his bulky frame and bright personality, and Anders, long and lanky, always snappish and sharp.

He definitely needed a way to rein in his wandering thoughts for they heightened his foul mood beyond everything bearable. Furthermore, no, he wasn’t jealous, definitely not, yet the constant tearing to his gut did not lessen. Maker damns it all, who was he to fool? The mage had no obligations towards him, so why should a little tryst and a nebulous confession make a difference?

Anders’ laughter danced across the space between them, letting Hawke’s face light up a bit. The rational part in Fenris knew that the mage tried his hardest to cheer up the other after what happened to his sister the day before, yet the treacherous thought still lingered like a cloud over his head.

He almost jumped back to grab his sword when the sharp point of an elbow nudged him in the side. Isabela knew his ‘no-touch-rule’ well and only surrendered herself to such measures in order to get his attention.

‘Don’t stare, cupcake, it’s rude,’ she said, eyeing him intently. Fenris just exhaled a shuddering breath and strode on faster, yet her long legs caught up with ease, separating them from the two men behind.

‘Whatever is going on between you and Sparklefingers, please don’t murder him with your death glare. I kinda like that guy, you know.’

The urge to deny that something was ‘going on’ bubbled up out of reflex despite the fact that, indeed, something unnamable had happened between them and Fenris had no idea how to explain it. Least of all to his part-time-lover of sorts. Silence was golden, so he kept his mouth shut. Isabela was famous for her tendency to indulge in mental cinematic trips, and it would be wise not to provide her with additional fodder.

‘You’ve started to like him, too, haven’t you?’

Except that she had already left her cognitive diorama behind and began to ask questions that hit home way too precisely for his liking. When he turned his head to face her, he found her looking along the shoreline with softness in her honey eyes Fenris couldn’t help but find endearing. Somehow it made it easier to answer.

‘It’s not that simple.’

Her laughter pearled like drops of rain in May.  ‘It never is, is it? But it won’t change the fact that something grew between you – whether you like it or not.’

Fenris snorted, even though he tried to hold it back.

‘No, what grew between us got broken on the dirty pavement of Lowtown yesterday. It won’t grow back.’ He knew his words were cryptic, undiscernible, but they left his lips before he was able to squish them down. He’d lost his pet project to the unforgiving reality of Kirkwall and its simmering conflicts. Fenris couldn’t help but take it as a token that he would never be able to love someone from the bottom of his heart - just as Danarius had predicted. He was a tool, a formidable weapon. Nothing more.

Also, he was well aware that whatever budding trust might have developed between him and Anders had gotten deeply shaken after the other’s escalation.

Instead of asking inquiring questions, Isabela measured him with her one-raised-eyebrow-glare that had let braver men than him cower in fear.

‘Listen, sweetie, I will say this only once, so you better listen up: When something that had grown got broken, find fucking ways to _mend_ it. Most things regrow under proper care. It’s nature’s course.’

Fenris blinked at her for a few, horribly long seconds. ‘You sound an awful lot like Merrill,’ he deadpanned.

‘Andraste’s firm tiddies, is that a praise or an insult?!’

‘I’m…I’m not sure…’

Her answering smile was infectious, and all of a sudden, his headache was blown away and his foul mood had lifted considerably.

Her gaze was on the shoreline again, then she jerked into motion from one moment to the next. She fumbled with her belt until it came loose and pulled her top over her head, all the while stumbling down the sloping hill, heading straight for the beach. Her headscarf fluttered in the crisp late-summer breeze as her laughter echoed up the cliffs in rising crescendo. Fenris watched her in silent amusement. Isabela was so predictably unpredictable.

‘The last one in the water has to take the final watch-out shift AND has to do the dishes! Hurry up, boys!’

Behind him, Fenris heard shouts of outrage and a clearly challenged rogue rushed past him, shedding the outer layers of his armor on the way down in a gawkish attempt to best her before she hit water, already clearly failing miserably.

No force in all of Thedas would’ve been able to make him hold back the laughter that escaped him upon the remarkable sight of the two of them tumbling down towards the shoreline, shedding their cloths on the way. Suddenly, Fenris was glad he’d decided to join his friends on this trip despite his nasty hangover.

A chuckle next to him plucked him out of his musings.

‘What a bunch of idiots,’ Anders said while his eyes still followed the pair until they finally reached the sea with a wide splash.

Fenris shook his head, the insistent smile plastered in place on his face by forces unknown to him. ‘I do the dishes. You do the last shift,’ he said without raising his eyes to the mage that had come to a halt next to him, his body radiating a warmth that added to the rays of sunlight already engulfing him. Fenris took a deep breath to inhale the wafting breeze and the other’s scent he knew by heart by now.

‘Deal.’

The distinctive happiness shining through that simple, single word let him raise his eyes to the mage again despite his best intentions. Anders looked tired, but was back to his old self again, all traces of the lingering demon gone. His ponytail was messy and his clothes more rumpled than usual, but, Maker, the open expression on his face was the best thing Fenris had seen all day.

His hand reached out as if possessed by a will of its own, and carded though the tresses to free them from their up-do. Anders didn’t seem to mind; he even bowed his head a bit to grant him better access. He looked like a different person with his hair down: More approachable, all soft edges. Fenris had to laugh inwardly at the discrepancy of those words: Nothing was soft about an edge, yet it described Anders so very well. There was a special word for that type of rhetorical contradiction, and he wracked his brain for it, but his mind was still stuck for an answer.

‘You like to pull my hair down, don’t you?’ Anders question had that tone of friendly nagging, even though the situation had turned oddly intimate once more.

‘That’s quite obvious by now, don’t you think?’

‘I’m beginning to get a hang for your little _quirks_ regarding me,’ he said, cocking his head, as if to display the locks that curled around his chin.

 _That cocky bastard did that on purpose_ , the evil, little voice in the back of his head chirped in. Belatedly, Fenris noted that they were flirting – in an awkward and graceless way, but nonetheless. Heat settled in the tips of his ears. He’d come down this man’s throat hot and unhinged, yet he got flustered because of a commentary with a tidbit of erotic subtext? He groaned in annoyance and staggered down the hill where their companions had disappeared.

‘Come on, mage, let’s set up camp and see whether our rogues have managed to drown each other.’ Diversion was a solid and widespread form of tactical defense – and it spared Fenris from flirting back, or worse: Bury both hands in Anders hair and let his desires lead the way. It was bad enough that his blood had already started to rush south due to their little suggestive exchange.

Anders’ laughter followed him down to the beach like a warm cloak draped over his shoulders.

It appeared that both of their friends were able to refrain themselves from open homicide and instead decided to hunt them dinner. Fenris was barely able to swallow his snickering when a wet and rather naked Hawke borrowed the mage’s beloved staff to use it as a common spear for fishing. Needless to say that Anders was livid. Isabela hushed him with a peck to his nose and followed Hawke, her bare skin gleaming in the sun like liquid cinnamon.

Settling under a group of wind-beaten pine trees, Fenris stretched out on his bedroll and crossed his arms behind his head, idly gazing through the foliage above him, leaving it to the mage to see to the fire.

He jerked upright when a tendril of magic brushed against his markings, and found Anders standing in the middle of their camp, casting a glyph of protection to the ground.

‘What?’ he asked as the magic seeped into earth. ‘There’s none of our rogues around to set up traps to alert us of intruders, so my magic has to do.’

He sat down next to him, folding his long legs beneath him and rummaged through his backpack. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve startled you,’ Anders spoke more to his belongings that to him.

‘It’s okay; you didn’t use your spell on me. This type of magic feels like rain washing over my skin. It’s almost soothing. Your magic always reminds me of water,’ Fenris said as he began to relax again.

‘My magic feels like that to you, too? That’s not the first time I’ve got to hear that, but it never fails to make me laugh because of the irony of it.’ Anders had produced some fruit from the depths of his pack and handed him one with a smile that let the crow feet in the corners of his eyes dance in sympathy.

‘What irony?’ Fenris couldn’t help to ask. Biting into the ripe peach, he eyed him in curiosity.

Anders smile got lopsided. ‘Have you never asked yourself why I don’t join in in Hawke’s and Isabela’s hose fight or tag along to go fishing? It surely wouldn’t be beneath me.’

Now that Fenris thought about it, that fact glared right back at him. His confusion must’ve been obvious, and Anders took pity on him.

‘I never learned to swim. Growing up in a tower in the center of a lake that should keep you imprisoned, it would’ve been…counterproductive to further along such a skill. It didn’t stop me from trying nonetheless. My fourteen-year-old self almost drowned when I overestimated my mana reserves. I had planned on floating to the far shore on a bubble of concentrated air. It really was a nice concept and, today, I would’ve been able to pull a stunt like that – but back then, my bubble burst after like five minutes. Quite literally.’

Anders crooked smile had vanished completely by now and his own half-eaten peach was lying in his lap forgotten.

‘Drowning is a horrible way to die, believe me. It’s not only the water that pulls you in, but the coldness that creeps into your bones and renders you immobile. You are no longer a living creature of flesh, blood and bone: You turn into stone bit by bit. A stone that wants to scream and _can’t._ Just…can’t.’

Fenris’ mouth had gone dry. The urge to reach out appeared again, but this time in order to sooth and comfort. He began to ask himself why he was holding back, and before his mind was able to finish that line of thought, his hand had already wandered off again, caressing the mage’s cheek with his thumb stroking small circles over it.

‘But you’ve survived,’ he found himself saying and wanted to cringe because of the obvious stupidity of that sentence. Anders leaned into his hand as if to disappear into the small gesture. Then he heaved a deep sigh, took the hand that held him and covered it with both of his own. Fenris felt his gaze on him almost physically.

‘I did. That’s actually thanks to a Templar that thought I was worth the trouble shucking out of her armor while all the other on the boat would’ve let me drown in plain sight. One more defiant mage less to worry about. She dived and dragged me back to the surface, got me back to the beach and then had beaten and shaken me until the last drop of water was gone from my lungs. To cut a long story short: Water scares the living shit out of me since then. The ocean is the worst.’

Anders’ fingers were ghosting over his gauntlets before he withdrew them, the air hanging heavy around them.

‘That’s why it’s kinda funny that my magic’s nature is so much associated with water.’

The smile he’d put on his face was forced. Fenris wanted to wipe it away to replace it with the true one, the one that danced with his crow feet and transformed him into that beautiful being of sun and sunlight. But Anders was a creature full of contradictions and soft edges that seemed to follow him down to his deepest self, so Fenris resigned himself to having to deal with this side of the man, too. 

What his mind had failed to deliver before, it dished out now at the most ill-fitting time: Oxymoron. That was the word he’d searched; the rhetorical term for Anders’ ‘soft edges’.

‘Since then, my darkest nightmares consist mostly of me drowning – and believe me, I have quite a wide array to pick from. Remember my little near-death-experience? Dying felt like drowning in a strong current to me, only this time it wasn’t a Templar fishing me back, but you.’ He paused for a while as if to steel himself for the next sentence. ‘I’ve never really thanked you for saving my life, Fenris, so, uhm, a bit belatedly: Thank yo-’

Fenris’ oxymoron was still ghosting through his head and he chuckled to himself that it unintentionally contained another word as a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Spanning the space separating them to kiss him silent, he swallowed Anders’ last syllable with a nib of his lips. ‘Moron,’ he whispered into their shared space. He definitely needed to figure out why his body acted upon itself so much lately, but that was a problem for later-Fenris. He was dimly aware that he was undermining his no-touch rule when he allowed Anders to kiss back with barely restrained hunger. Kissing wasn’t his forte, yet, Maker, the mage knew what he was doing and Fenris let himself be swept away, dancing along in steps he never knew the choreography of.

A scream of pain that unmistakably belonged to Isabela tore them apart.

‘Anders! Hurry over! Bela stepped on an urchin! Damn, don’t cling to me like that, you’re heavy!’

‘’m not heavy! Ouch, fuck, that hurts like a bitch!’

Anders let go of him, regret plain to see on his features, and rushed to where the screams came from.

Fenris sat there, frozen in time. His lips still tingled and tasted of peaches and sea salt. He didn’t know what possessed him to make a move on the mage again, but took comfort in the fact that this time their exchange was so much more consensual.

Whatever this was that was developing between them, it was still full of contradictions and a thousand things that needed sorting out and through.

Isabela had been right: What got broken was in the process of mending together again.

It would never be without soft edges and Fenris was glad for that.


	13. sparks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, I'd been road-tripping Tuscany for a while.  
> I'm back on track with this story, I promise!

_Anders? Tell me what happiness is. I want to know. You are happy now, aren’t you?_

To most people happiness was an abstract, a goal on the distant horizon that ought to be aspired, but something rarely reached. Anders on the other hand was damn happy right now, here in this Maker-forsaken corner of Thedas – no horizon, no far goal that needed reaching: There was a certain kind of brightness in him that filled his very being up to the brim.

_The light it is? That’s happiness?_

He nodded, well aware that it was a useless gesture for a spirit that shared his mind and soul, but it served its purpose and gave his little mental chat with Justice the tang of an ordinary conversation even though he refrained from answering him aloud: The others were still sleep although the night began to turn into early morning slowly. He took a stick to stir the flames alive again. A shower of sparks twirled up to the lead-grey sky, each tiny speck of light following the other to form a chaotic current that his eyes lost sight of after a while. Anders tried to track their way until they’d wandered beyond his vision in an attempt to make them stay.

_You are happy because the elf has kissed you._

Coming from Justice this statement almost sounded like an accusation, but it didn’t change the obvious: The light glowing in him was due to Fenris and no chiding, no nagging would be able to smother that spark.

His stick bothered the flames again to let red rain soar up to heavens as a memento of the feeling that had taken hold of him. Justice would learn to understand with time. Maybe not tomorrow, and most certainly not today, but he would get a grasp at how Fenris was able to set fire to his being.

He drew the worn plaid closer around him, huddling into it for warmth. The campsite was eerily silent and only the crushing waves of the shoreline provided a background tune that lured him in with its constant swooshing. Picking up Merrill’s book on elven enchantments, he continued to copy the displayed drawings of each shown glyph without understanding their meaning, but some of them indeed held a resemblance to Fenris’ markings on a fundamental level. His pencil sketched on, tendril after curling tendril until he’d filled another sheet with a beautiful sign of which he could only guess its purpose.

A deep groan let him reach for his staff out of instinct, but instead of an intruder, Fenris’ tent entry flapped to the side and a disgruntled elf showed between the canvases. If Merrill had assumed Fenris would look hilarious hungover with bed-hair, she would’ve been delighted to see him in this sober version freshly raised from the feathers: His eyes squinted against the firelight and his bangs lay matted to one side to reveal the three-dot-constellation that graced his forehead.  He smothered a yawn with the back of his hand and swallowed the last remains of his sleep with an audible gulp. His hand raked through his mop of hair in a vain attempt to righten it, yet he only worsened its status.

Anders’ gaze followed the lines of his arm, charmed by the flexing muscle and the meandering brandings on the dark skin. Fenris’ thin, sleeveless shirt didn’t hide his toned upper body and Anders had to focus on the other’s still drowsy face before his thoughts wandered off to more intimate realms. 

‘Good morning, sleepy head,’ he said instead, greeting the elf with his best smile.

‘’ts not ev’n morning…,’ the other grumbled in answer as he crawled out of the tent to settle in a heap at the fire next to him.

‘The final shift is mine; you don’t have to be up. Go back to sleep, you have at least another two hours of blessed napping time, Fenris.’

A groan was his only reply all the while the elf was drawing up his knees to let his arms rest upon them, staring into the dancing flames without another word.

Anders was far from being a morning person, but compared to Fenris, he was all flowers and sunshine. Merrill would have a fucking field trip on that subject. He smiled to himself while gathering his plaid to fold it over the elf’s bare shoulders.

He didn’t expect the flinch that ran through the other due to that little gesture and scurried back, weary that he’d overstepped a boundary he wasn’t aware of – most likely related to Fenris’ no-touch-rule.

‘Sorry…,’ he stammered, unsure of what else to say.

‘’Ts, fine, ‘Fenris said, pulling the blanket closer around him without facing Anders directly. He spoke to the flickering flame, his shoulders still tense and tight.

‘Bad dream. Weird, bad dream.’

Anders wished for him to start speaking in full sentences. It was hard to discern some meaning from the fragments that were thrown in his direction, yet he contented himself with those scraps. Picking up his discarded pencil, he continued his studies, hoping for Fenris to speak up about what was troubling him – or at least, to relax again.

He had filled four more pages with the twirling, foreign designs, when the elf’s words let his head snap up again.

‘You’re good at drawing, aren’t you? I wouldn’t have the patience to formulate a detailed concept like that. Just like you did with my…with the drawing of my marks. That needs quite some skill. These sketches are part of your research, aren’t they?’

Finally, he was back at articulating with his usual broad range of verbiage. Anders’ smile was also back in place within the fraction of a second.

‘Drawing comes easy to me. It always had. It’s like my mind and my ideas take hold of my hand and start producing. It’s the same with writing. My brain and my hand have a conspiracy going on that the rest of me has no influence on. And I’m pointedly not talking about Justice. As for the book: Yes, Merrill excavated some ancient elven volume that may bring light into the darkness that surrounds your glyph.’

Anders scratched himself behind his ear in nervous tension. ‘At least if I would be able to read Elven. Actually, that’s the crucial point.’

To his utter amazement, Fenris disappeared into the old plaid until he was barely to be seen: A lump of brown-red checkered fabric that breathed in a steady rhythm with only a fringe of bright-white hair sticking out from beneath the folds on top of it.

‘’m no help to you,’ came the muffled reply, all freshly required eloquence gone in an instant.

Anders stared at his impersonated plaid for a few, long moments until curiosity got the better of him, and his hand reached out to nudge down the hem at the top to reveal a pair of olive eyes staring straight ahead in stubborn defiance. Fenris' full mouth was set in a tight line, refusing an answer long before any question could possibly arise. 

‘I…I don’t know why you refuse to help so vehemently, but I won’t usher you into something you are not comfortable with. I’ll find a way. Don’t worry.’ With that, Anders reclined back into a relaxed slouch, gazing at the beginning dawn.

Fenris had kept his eyes trained on the fireplace, his jawline working under pressure.  Anders was able to feel the other’s words before they left his lips.

‘Why are you like that,’ Fenris spat, the dam finally breaking. ‘I don’t get you. Some things rile you up in a millisecond and you lash out without rational thought, all rage and revenge and when you have all the right in the world to be upset, you show patience worthy of Andraste herself. I…I…just don’t get you, mage!’

Anders knew his huffed laugh was far from being appealing, yet he couldn’t hold it back. ‘Sometimes I don’t understand myself at all, too. I loose grip of what I am, who I am. You’ve seen that side yesterday, haven’t you? My whole self is reduced to the very aim I focus on, and the how’s and why’s are a side note without importance.’

He took the stick and stirred the flames until golden tongues were licking at the firewood again. Fenris watched the sparks fly in the crisp morning air, clearly sorting through what Anders had just admitted.

‘It’s your spirit that lets you steer off-course, isn’t it.’

Swallowing around the constriction in his throat, Anders was only able to manage a curt nod. Here it was: The conversation he had so dreaded. There was no use in turning backwards or evading the issue – even joking away the problem won’t do the job this time, even though the urge to so was more prominent than ever.

‘…I’m losing control more often these days…it’s like I’m turning Justice into something we both are not…well, not originally. I’ve changed him and I have no idea how to undo that.’  

Finally, the truth lay bare between them: Ugly, cold and heavy as lead.

Fenris’ frown had deepened to a full-blown scowl, and Anders’ heart sank at seeing it directed at him again.

‘You’re turning into an abomination gradually.’

The words hung in the air as a self-fulfilling prophecy, and, suddenly, Anders felt like he was drowning again: The waters were closing in above his head and his own weight pulled him down into a blackness that would swallow him without a trace. His lungs ached under the pressure and the ice-cold hand was back around his throat, leaching out his breath with an iron grip. His powers were failing him, no matter how hard he tried to summon them. Panic settled in his heart, but he found himself unable to move a single finger. There was no way up, only down and down.

A warm hand on his shoulder let his head snap up again, like the breaking of a spell.

‘Breathe.’

Fenris’ word tasted of absolution and a shudder wracked Anders’ body as he took in a deep gulp of air, focusing of the palm that spread warmth throughout him. His gasping breaths slowly returned to a more or less normal pattern all the while the constant grip to his shoulder served as a solid anchor to a world that would’ve otherwise slipped away out of reach again.

‘Breathe, Anders, just breathe.’ The elf was crouching above him never ceasing his firm hold, and Anders would’ve laughed about how time was mirrored again: He had his very own near-death experience again with Fenris as his fix point to reality.

‘I won’t let it come to that, Anders.’

For a moment, his sentence made no sense, and Anders stared at him still breathing heavy. Both of the elf’s hands grabbed him by the shoulders by now as he leaned right into his personal space.

‘I won’t let you become an abomination. I will kill you if I must…if that will keep you human. Your soul will be lost forever the moment you’re turning into a demon. I can’t let that happen, I…’ He swallowed whatever it was he further wanted to say, the lines on his face etched with worry.

A gust of wind was brushing over them took hold of the small fire and a curtain of sparks was dancing around them like tiny souls soaring up to find a place they were meant to be. Anders watched them twirl from the corner of his eyes, but his focus was still on Fenris being close and so very real. He knew that acting out of instinct around the elf never led to any good outcomes, but no force in the whole, wide world would’ve possibly been able to hold him back now. His arms reached out and he pulled the other into a tight embrace, burying his face into the crook of his neck.

He expected a flinch or a shove back, but instead of a violent response, Fenris pulled him against his own body tighter and Anders let himself be held. He knew that the other must be fighting with himself not only to endure a gesture like that, but to accept it so wholeheartedly.

_He will kill us, Anders._

Justice voice was distant, yet insistent.

‘You…you will be my last line of defense,’ he spoke into Fenris’ skin. ’If I fail to control my spirit ultimately, you will step in and end me before I might harm someone, will you?’  A hand cradled the back of his head, tucking him in deeper. Anders wanted to leave his body behind and become part of the other’s skin that radiated such comfort and warmth. Maker, he would leave his entire self behind and become one with the creature in front of him if that would be possible.

‘I promise.’

Again, two words that held an absolution way bigger than Anders was able to comprehend.

_He will kill us!_

Yes, he would, if push came to shove in order to save them from far worse. Justice fell silent, mulling over the silent words directed at him.

Anders wanted to stay in the embrace forever and that thought sounded cheesy even in the seclusion of his own mind, yet he refused to let go of the body that held him in return. Fenris’ presence was calming even though it was obvious that he didn’t really know how to comfort a troubled person. He was grateful for him trying despite of all.

‘Control him as best as you can. I don’t want to have to kill you.’

Untangling himself reluctantly, Anders searched his gaze and found him looking pained, torn: His fine features distorted by sorrow.

‘I’m bestowing a heavy burden upon you, I’m sorry, ‘Anders said, voice small and foreign.

‘That’s not an answer to my request, mage.’

Anders’ laugh was mirthless, a mere charade to mask the severe consequences that laid bare in all of their horror.

‘I…I will do my best and restrain him. Believe it or not: I don’t have a death wish. But…knowing that you will step in if I’m losing myself gives me comfort.’

The first rays of sunlight breached the horizon, painting their surroundings in a soft pastel hue, and with it came the realization that the both of them might see many early mornings like this one until the Maker decided to end their lives. The brightness from within was back from one moment to the next and a gratefulness spread in Anders that he was blessed to walk his way alongside a strange and beautiful creature like Fenris.

As if the other had been able to read his mind, he settled right next to him again, their arms still brushing against each other with every small movement. In the easy silence engulfing them, Fenris began to gather the sheets of paper that had slipped away and sorted through them, flattening each crease with care. He gazed at the drawings lost in thought.

‘Facing your demons is the hardest task imaginable,’ he mumbled. ‘And I’m not even talking about Justice. Sometimes your sorrows are piling up until you’re faced with nothing but a massive mountain. It’s the climbing of that mountain that’s so damn difficult.’ He looked up and fixed Anders with a hard stare, sunlight and sparks in his eyes all mixed up to a maelstrom of green and gold.

Anders’ green beyond was staring back at him to see right into the depths of his soul. He felt naked under that gaze. Transfixed as he was, he almost missed the other’s words.

‘I’m glad you’ve decided to climb your mountain.’

A choked laugh got stuck in Anders’ throat. ‘I’m not even seeing its peak, Fenris. I’m just stumbling uphill blindly without a plan.’

Picking up Merrill’s discarded book, Fenris thumbed through its pages without really focusing on them.

‘Then keep stumbling,’ he said with a surety that belied the nature of his words.  

Suddenly, his hands stilled over a chapter that displayed another glyph: A distinctive pattern graced with an alienating familiar three-dot-constellation.

They both stared at the page like struck by lightning.

‘Sweet Maker…,’ Anders gasped. ‘Jackpot.’

 

 


	14. the note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some long overdue Hawke-Fenris interaction, because bro's being bro's.

A cat.

There was a delicate drawing of a cat sitting at the far end of the message, right next to what supposedly be the sender’s name. It stared at him in mocking innocence, licking its sketched paw.

The note was nothing but a scrap, torn from of a book without care, a hastily scribbled message on the empty space at the side of the page. The handwriting in itself was neat nonetheless, leaned a bit to the right and indicated an educated, practiced writer.

Fenris’ hold to the snip of paper grew tighter as his eyes followed the rhythmic code of letters in a vain attempt to decipher the meaning behind them. In the end, he heaved an angry sigh, folded the paper and began to pace his entry hall where he’d picked up the note mere moments before. A certain someone must’ve slipped it below the door without announcing himself. Why did he bother with the contents of the letter? It was already clear as day who must’ve sent it: How many people in all of Thedas would add a cat to their signature?

Fenris felt the corners of his lips pull up to form a fond smile.

‘Idiot mage…’he spoke into the silence of the room.

For a grown man, the drawing appeared to be a display of utter childishness, but Fenris was grateful for it. Curiosity got the better of him and urged him to unfold the note again. Its message couldn’t be of great importance – otherwise the mage would’ve taken a more direct approach…yet it must hold a meaning dire enough. Maybe of some more intimate nature?

Raking his hand through his hair in annoyance, he made his decision in the blink of an eye: He wanted, _needed_ to know, and there was only one person in all of Kirkwall he trusted enough not to laugh about his shortcomings – or worse: pity him.

The door closed behind him with a bang as he headed down to Hightown’s main place. The chantry loomed over it like a giant that had grown too big in its own shoes, dwarfing the people that lived at its feet. In the light of the young day, it casted a long shadow. Belatedly, he thought about asking Sebastian to help him with his note, yet almost instantly decided against it: What if Anders’ words conveyed indeed a message that gave away their…whatever it was they shared. He still had no proper name for it, but was sure that he would spare Sebastian with the finer details of its definition. He respected the prince, yet potentially bearing his tryst and dalliance like that was far beyond everything he was comfortable with.

Fenris’ feet knew their course by heart and only stopped when he stood right in front of his destination. The Hawke crests flanked the entry in all of their new-gained glory. The moment he wanted to announce himself, the door opened and the owner of said crests stood right in front of him donned in full battle attire, a surprised smile rising on his features immediately.

‘What…why…hello, Fenris, if that’s not the best coincidence of the day! I just wanted to go and ask you if you would like to accompany me for a stroll to the docks. Maybe to have a little chat with the Arishok along the way. I know your Qunlat is as flawless as ever!’

One of Hawke’s most catching traits aside form his charming personality was without a doubt his ability to mask a highly unpleasant and most like very dangerous quest as something everyone would be bound to enjoy due to his aforementioned charming aura. Fenris nodded in surrender, a small smile dancing around his lips. Saying ‘no’ to Hawke was never really an option when the other pulled that trick. A voice in the back of his mind informed him that those were the indications of a manipulating mastermind, but he only shrugged mentally: Hawke was a rogue after all with all the up and downsides that came along with that.

‘If I can help you with my sword and my words, I will.’ Stowing his snip of paper into his side-pouch, Fenris decided to let the issue with his message rest until a more appropriate time would arise.

If Fenris would’ve known that the day’s events would lead their merry band from the Qunari’s barracks to a wild chase through Darktown’s deepest sewers in order to finally find its fulminant showdown in Lowtown’s backstreets filled to the brim with poison gas, he might’ve been inclined to decline Hawke’s inquiry. Even by the rogue’s standards this was quest was far from ordinary, and Fenris cursed Kirkwall for being a disaster in every way imaginable.

Aveline’s barked orders still echoed down the corridors as the poison slowly began to dissolve. She was franticly trying to sort through the aftermath of the attack and stayed behind to guide the evacuation when more and more survivors came stumbling up the main place.

Nonetheless, Fenris tagged along when Hawke decided to head back to the docks again to give the Arishok a fill-in of the recent events even though his legs felt like lead and he barely managed to suppress his still violent coughing.

Isabela had already taken her leave right before the flight of stairs that lead to the Qunari areal and Fenris began to ask himself what made her evade it like the plague, but, on the other hand, she always seemed to have her very own agenda going on and this obviously contained staying away from any Qunari as far as possible. He couldn’t blame her.

Conversation with the Arishok was never a pleasantry and given the recent circumstances his mood was foul and menacing. His rating about Kirkwall’s decent and decay held a certain truth, but in the end, it was little more than highly frustrated droning that glossed over the fact that Hawke once more did all the dirty work that would’ve otherwise been the Qunari’s problem. There was a storm brewing on the horizon, already sending jolts of electricity across to everyone near and aware enough to notice. This was bound to end in disaster. Fenris was more than glad that they were able to leave the lion’s den in one piece.

With a deep groan Hawke settled on the dock’s edge, his feet dangling mere inches above the waterline and buried is head in his large hands.

‘What a mess. What fucking, ugly mess.’ His words were muffled and torn by coughing, spitting blood into the murky water. Fenris fumbled for a healing potion as he crouched down next to him.

‘Here. Drink.’

Hawke eyed him from under his sweat-soaked fringe, then took the offered flask without a comment, downing its contents in one go.

‘Thank you,’ he said after a moment, gazing at the now empty bottle. ‘Wait. That’d been your last one, hadn’t it?’

A nasty cough shook Fenris when he began to answer, cutting off any syllable.

‘Fuck, I’m sorry Fenris. I always drag you into my shit and this is the outcome! You don’t owe me, remember.’

His hand patted his back in order to sooth the coughing, but Fenris only felt unnecessarily pampered. He wouldn’t die from a bit of gas.

‘It’s okay, it’s not that bad…just have to get this out of my system. And it was my decision to follow you into battle, Hawke. It felt right to do so.’ He took a deep inhale, the fresh sea breeze opening his airflow, but the stench of fish wafting over made his stomach turn in somersaults, ending his attempts to breathe normal with a graceless retch. Hawke was over him in a heartbeat, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder as Fenris puked whatever was left of his breakfast into the dark waters.

‘It’s my mistake. Going into battle without a mage on our side was far from being a brilliant idea. Anders would’ve healed us in the blink of an eye. Hell, even Merrill would’ve been able to absorb at least a bit of the damage, even if she’s lousy at healing magic.’

Fenris reached for his water canteen to wash away the foul taste in his mouth, before he collapsed in boneless heap with Hawke still steady at his side.

‘Don’t worry. ‘t takes more than that…to get me killed,’ he managed to answer. The rogue gazed down at him with worry, clearly not convinced at all.

‘Come on, I’ll get you to the clinic. Blondie will see to your lungs and all will be okay.’ Hawke made an attempt to pull him to his feet, but Fenris refused with the stubborn dignity of a wounded ram.

‘Gimme just one more moment ‘n I’ll be able to walk on my own,’ he said, falling back with a thud.

’…’nd there’s something more…something I need your help with.’ Fenris had to swallow. Asking for help still tasted foreign on his tongue.

Hawke sat down again to patiently wait for him to continue. When Fenris produced the worn piece of paper from his pocket, he gazed at the item in wonder.

‘It’s a message form Anders…well…’t least I think it must be from him. The cat is a dead giveaway, isn’t it?’ Laughing hurt his throat and he vowed not to try it in the near future.

Hawke’s eyes roamed over the note in one fluent motion as he read aloud.

 

_“Good morning, sleepyhead. If you’ll find the time to come for a visit, I would be delighted. I’ve got to return something that originally belongs to you. Anders.”_

Handing the paper back, Hawke graced him with one of his stares that didn’t allow objection, though it was softer, more muted right now.

‘You…you can’t read, can you? That’s why you’re stuck to supposing.’

Fenris folded the sheet with outmost care, unable to meet the other’s gaze. ‘I never have been taught.’ Again, a cough tore his sentence short. ‘It would’ve…It would’ve been…counterproductive to teach a slave such a thing.’

Hawke stared at him, mouth agape. ‘But you speak several languages. Are you telling me that you’ve learned them without been able to read…just by picking them up along the way?’

A tiny nod was Hawke’s only answer.

‘Damn, Fen, you’re some damn smart guy. Scholars take years to study languages and you just learned them while on the run by listening and speaking. Autodidactically. That’s quite some feat.’

Leave it to Garrett Hawke to turn one’s inability into their greatest asset. Fenris felt heat spread from his cheeks to the very tip of his ears, but at least he was finally able to face the man again.

‘I…I suppose it is?’

‘Awww, come on, my friend, don’t belittle yourself like that. I can’t even manage to leave my Fereldan accent behind, let alone speak another language. But if you’d like to, I could teach you, not my Fereldan accent, writing and reading I mean.’

Something bubbled up from deep within and spread through Fenris’ whole being. Kirkwall might be the hellhole on earth, yet he didn’t regret coming here, for it made him meet people like Hawke. People how were willing to help him grow in their own, different ways. He wanted to accept the offer, accept it gladly, but all what left his throat was another coughing fit that let tears rise to his eyes.

‘Okay, enough talking and stalling time, I’m going to drag you to Darktown myself. Now.’

Resistance was futile when Hawke pulled him to his feet with an arm slung over his broad shoulder and a stabilizing grip to his side.

‘Hey, ehm,’ Hawke was fishing for words. ‘I’m trying not to rouse sleeping dogs…or dragons, but…you and Anders…I mean…the both of you…something has changed between you, hasn’t it?’

Fenris had dreaded that question since he’d left his mansion this morning, yet he was grateful for Hawke’s diplomatic approach to that topic. Nodding, he pondered about the truth in the other’s words. Indeed, something has changed.

‘I…I didn’t notice it in the beginning…’ He had to stop in order to force air into his lungs. ‘But I guess we changed each other. We still clash. Frequently. But…’ He was almost sure the small slip of paper stowed in his pocket radiated a warmth that should be impossible.

‘But you’re slowly finding ways, paths, to each other, don’t you?’

Fenris would’ve loved to see Hawke’s expression, though his position half-slouched over the other’s shoulders prevented that. He thought back to the early-morning discussion he had with Anders at the shoreline camp; thought about how he talked about the mountain Anders had to climb. Now he was positive that he was stuck on the very same mountain together with him, stumbling uphill alongside the mage. Sometimes leaving his path to cross it again sooner or later, yet being bound to meet up with him again for they were both aiming to reach the top of it.

‘He’s so damn complicated. Frustrating also. Sometimes…I don’t get him at all.’

Hawke’s laugh reverberated through him, too.

‘I’m sure he could say the same things about you, don’t you think?’

A pained laugh gurgled up his throat and he cringed at the distorted sound.

‘Absolutely.’

‘But he’s worth it, isn’t he? I mean he even draws cute cats on his love letter to you. That says a lot.’

Fenris’ mind screamed at him to answer with a ‘I hope so’, yet a tearing in his gut that had nothing to do with his recent nausea spoke a truer language and his tongue decided to follow his gut instinct.

‘Yes, he’s worth it. Maybe he will be…the biggest mistake I’ve ever made, but he will be worth it.’

A deep chuckle answered him.

‘That’s the most beautiful love declaration I’ve ever heard, Fen.’

‘Shut it, Hawke.’

The rogue was barely able to smother his laughter as he more or less carried him through half of the city until they reached Anders’ clinic.

 

They didn’t even make it through the front doors: The place resembled a gigantic bee hive with coughing and blood-spitting people everywhere. Fenris spotted Lirene hurrying to and fro, but wasn’t sure whether she’d seen them. By now, he was barely able to keep his eyes open.

Hawke lowered him to an empty spot at the stairs where he leant against the railing as a bone-deep tiredness overcame him like in an all-engulfing wave. Suddenly, breathing seemed to be a herculean task.

‘’m tired, Hawke. So tired.’

‘Fen, hang in there, hear me? Fenris? Come on, you have to stay awake!’

Hawke’s gauntlet hurt when he tapped him to the cheek, yet he was already too far gone to care much. He once more blinked his eyes open to see the other’s deeply worried gaze directed at him, but the rogue’s words were lost in the fog surrounding him.

The world zoomed out of focus after that. He welcomed the silence that awaited him.

 

 

 

 


	15. breaking rules

_Calm down, Anders. You won’t turn anything for the better if you let fear consume you._

That was easier said than done. If Anders would’ve been able to spare one clear thought and throw it in the general direction of his admittedly well-meaning spirit, it would’ve been that one, but he had no time for petty remarks.

Right now, he fought the hardest to still his shaking hands as he leaned over Fenris’ barely breathing body, gathering his last mana reserves to analyze the damage the poison gas had done to the elf. The magic pooled under his palms, then spread through the body below to finally bounce back as a weak afterimage displaying the severity of the injury: It was worse than expected. The gas had already poisoned Fenris’ whole system, slowing heartbeat and brain functions, but what let Anders worry skyrocket was the state of his lungs.

‘We here in the midst of it all. I…I dragged him there and…and he gave me his last potion…and, Anders, I’m sorry…I should’ve have brought him here sooner.’

Hawke’s words took some time to sink in through his panicked mind, but he didn’t even spare him a glance as he let his remaining powers pool to focus them on Fenris. He would deal with Hawke later. Again, the white light of his healing magic soared through the other, this time renewing what was gone and mend what lay broken, but his energy was dwindling before he was even remotely able to finish the procedure. His legs gave out from under him and he sagged to the ground.

‘No, Maker, no...,’ he cursed, tiredness and desperation shining through. He’d been healing people nonstop for over an hour and was beyond drained, but he refused to let that stop him so he pulled himself up again with nothing but naked defiance. It was exactly the same, restless energy that made him flee the Circle over and over again: A stubborn mind can be of a big advantage – at least sometimes.

‘Go and get every potion you can get! Elfroot. Mana. Whatever. And hurry!’ Lirene was shouting – most likely at Hawke, her voice toppling over in the end, but Anders only noticed her distantly.

Fenris’ face was soaked in sweat with his bangs clinging to his forehead in silvery tendrils as he took in rattling breath after rattling breath. Dread settled like lead in Anders’ stomach when he watched the other fight for air like that.

_Let me help him._

Justice’s voice made him flinch. His spirit had always been the one speaking up against the elf: Why should he bother with him now? Fenris even proved to be a threat in Justice’s eyes – helping him wouldn’t make any sense at all.  

_I never understood your relationship with him. Your attachment. Your fixation. Your yearning. But letting him die would hurt you again._

The spirit seemed to pause for a moment, before his words rang clear in the forefront of Anders’ mind.

_I’m tired of seeing hurt._

The sincerity of this statement hit Anders harder than any physical blow. Justice cared. He cared so much that he was willing to put up with a potential threat to both of them.

A wave of thankfulness washed through Anders, smothering his rampant panic.

‘How, Justice? How can _you_ save him if _I_ can’t?’

His questions drowned in the noise all around them unheard as if they’d never left his lips. His palms were still resting upon Fenris’ chest to guard each breath, each heartbeat.

_You will. Through me. Through him._

Anders’ confusion was palpable, and the spirit interjected before he was able to ask anew.

_Have faith in me, even though I’ve failed you before. I’ll show you if you let me. But be aware: What I’m going to do is not without a certain kind of danger. If this doesn’t work out as intended, we could perish too. And: It will go directly against one of your elf’s set-up rules._

His hands clawed into Fenris’ thin shirt. He would keep him in this world, no matter the price – he would deal with the consequences later, whatever they might be.

If they were to survive this.

Maker, when had he developed these borderline suicidal tendencies? This knack for sacrifice? Sometimes he wondered what had happened to the carefree, happy-go-lucky version of him: The man, who wouldn’t have given a rat’s ass about what happened to others as long as he wasn’t concerned. Then he remembered that all of this wasn’t about him: It was for Fenris’ sake.

‘The things you do for love, eh?’ he murmured to himself.

This time, Lirene shot him a worried gaze when she hurried past him, a bundle of bandages in her arms, but he paid her no heed.

He traced Fenris’ high cheekbones with a soft caress, before he turned his thoughts inwards. Handing over the reins of his conscious self to Justice came easy after all those years: It was like taking a seat in the back of a theatre to watch a show you already knew – only this time, Anders had to trust his spirit that he knew the play well enough to act along.

The pull of the Fade intensified as Justice focused on the unmoving elf. Fenris looked different through the spirit’s eyes: there were lines of bitterness carved into his features that Anders had failed to notice and even in his weakened state, the air around him spoke of that of a predator, a beast. No, he corrected his friend instantly; he was no animal, not a soulless creature. He was a hunter, a warrior, even if Justice saw nothing but the wild wolf in him.

_He’s a beautiful person despite all of his shortcomings, Justice._

Anders heard his spirit sigh. They wouldn’t find consent about the very nature of the elf that easily – and most importantly: Not while the source of their dissent lay dying right under their hands.

_Hurry, Justice, please!_

The spirit’s energy raised again all around them, filling the space with the fizzle of Fade-light before it channeled in on Fenris.

Anders had always been aware that the elf’s lyrium marks and Justice’s connection to the Fade were of the very same matter, yet it floored him how much of a spirit Fenris seemed to be because of them. They reacted on Justice’s impulse like a ghost lured out of its den – and not only visually: They held the same roaring power as any wild, angered entity, dashing forwards without reflection, full force. Realization came to Anders with a bang: Much of Fenris’ predatory aura must be stemming from the glyph branded into his skin so long ago.

‘He _is_ a beast, Anders.’ The spirit hissed between clenched teeth, obviously having come to the same conclusion as he tried to confront the onslaught. His voice was darker, deeper than Anders’ and it never ceased to unsettle him to hear it fall from his own lips.

_It’s his brandings! They turn him into something more like spirit. And an angry one on top of that. The two of you aren’t that different – now that I think about it! If triggered, you show the same fierce power._

‘Then the nature of this glyph is highly aggressive,’ Justice said, glossing over the fact that his own spiritually nature was discussed along the same lines. ‘But he’s a ghost made artificially. He’s crafted from lyrium, and _that alone_ will do the trick.’

Anders had only the fracture of a second to realize what Justice intended to do before a wave of energy washed through them, pure and undulated.

And furious beyond anything: A roaring of white-blue lyrium that snarled in Fenris’ voice.

Anders wasn’t sure which of the elf’s rules they were breaking – most likely all of them – but the deed was already set on course, unstoppable.

Justice kept on pulling at the brands for more power as their body sang with the surge of magic coursing through them. Anders almost missed the subtle push that let their consciousness shift again, settling him back in function of his body and Justice as a constant presence in the back of his mind.

Transforming the high tide of magical energy into healing was like breathing to Anders: He didn’t need to think about it, it just happened out of its own accord. It only needed guiding, needed direction and he fed it back to its very owner without hesitation. With the altering of magic, it lost much of its angry presence and let itself be shaped into something way softer, but the original threat still hung in the air as a bad omen. Anders ignored it as best as he could while he concentrated on reversing the damage the poison gas had done. He gave and gave until he wasn’t sure where his self ended and Fenris’ began. It was of no importance – quite on the contrary: It felt right even though the angry snarl still reverberated in his bones like distant thunder.

He let go when the last ounce of energy was spent, sagging back to be caught in a firm hold that settled him down to the ground in a tight embrace. The urge to look over his shoulder to see who’d caught him was strong, but tiredness was already creeping in again, turning his limbs to solid stone.

‘You’re doing it again. You know…that fucking stunt with spending all of your mana on others.’ Hawke’s voice was laden with accusation. Hawke. Of course it had to be him. Solid as a rock, no matter the circumstances. Maker, how did he deserve a friend like him?

‘…didn’t…didn’t make any promises. R’member?’ He didn’t manage more, even though he wanted to explain it to the fullest. Those half-sentences had to do for the moment.

‘You’re a bunch of idiots. Both of you,’ Hawke said with exasperation. ‘If I’ll feed you more lyrium you’re going to vomit your soul out, don’t you? No lyrium potion, no?’

Anders shook his head and huddled into the firm body behind him, closing his eyes for a moment. He was dimly aware that he was being lifted and dragged across the floor, but those were merely impressions that happened to the outside world and had nothing to do with him, not really.

_Your elf will live. Even if he might be a bit mad about my rough handling. And breaking his holy rules._

He had to smile to himself. Yes, he would have to face Fenris, but at least he had the chance to do so, and everything else would sort out eventually.

_Rest now, my friend._

With that, he let sleep take him into their soft arms.

 

Anders was absolutely sure that he couldn’t have been out for more than an hour when he opened his eyes again, but the thin crescent moon hung high upon the sky already, flooding his small room in silvery light. He groaned when he lifted himself up on one elbow only to notice that he wasn’t lying in his bed, but lounged in his worn armchair with a plaid thrown over him.

The moment he wondered why that was the case, he noticed a familiar shape taking up his bed, and Anders sighed in relief upon seeing the elf up and awake. Fenris’ eyes reflected the soft light in an olive glow and, not for the first time and most likely not for the last, he wondered why elven eyes had this eerily resemblance with those of cats. They would’ve been even more stunningly beautiful if they weren’t glaring daggers at him right now.

He braced himself for another clash, when Fenris averted his eyes to let his gaze rest on something nestled in his lap. He held the item with the outmost care, shielding it with both of his palms. In the stark contrasts of the moonlight, it took Anders a moment to figure out what Fenris was cradling so carefully, only to identify it as the sapling that Merrill had saved from its doom.

‘You’ve finally got your baby back.’ A smile stole its way upon his features without him noticing.

 Fenris nodded, not raising his eyes.

‘You woke, found your pet project sitting on my windowsill and decided to pick it up to bring it to bed for some cuddling despite a severely burnt lung. That’s quite some lesson on priorities, don’t you think? I’m kinda jealous.’

This jibe earned him a crooked smile and a flashing glance. Scooting closer to his cot, he put his legs onto the covers before he reclined back into his armchair, pulling the plaid closer for warmth.

‘How did you even identify it as yours? It could’ve been any plant from my garden. Even the pot is new. The chances were high that it was just some regular weed.’ Goading the other seemed to be a good course to lure out some words.

Fenris turned the little sapling in his hands, inspecting it from all angles, then shrugged noncommittedly.

So much for talking.

‘You know, I don’t handle the ‘silent treatment’ well,’ Anders said with a sigh. ‘I would prefer your angry ranting or a one syllable answer over this…charade. You’re mad at me for using your powers in order to heal you. I get that. It went against your rules. I’m sorry, okay. But, Maker, I did that to save you, you know? Is it so despicable to want to keep you alive? Did I do…’

A cushion, precisely hurled into his face, stopped his ongoing tirade and when he’d removed the offending piece of fabric, he found Fenris still shielding his plant while his right was still hovering in the air after the toss, his expression annoyed, angry _and_ amused all in one, before he gestured in the vague direction of his throat.

‘Fuck.’

Anders first scrambled to his feet, then skidded over the bed to come to a rest above Fenris, already gathering healing magic below his palms, only to have it dying in a shudder when his magic was snuffed out by exhaustion after a few seconds. At least this little check left him positive that Fenris’ muteness was merely the by-product of the poison gas and would heal with time.

‘It’s just the aftermath.’ His breath came and went in huffs. ‘It will pass with time. I’m sorry I didn’t check in on you sooner.’

Fenris went to grab for the second cushion in silent answer, and Anders had to laugh at the comedy of the situation, raising his hands in surrender.

‘Okay, okay, I yield,’ he said, sagging back onto the bed. ‘But let me get your little darling out of the line of fire first. It barely survived the latest attack.’ With that, he plucked the pot out of Fenris’ hand to put it on the shelf above the bed gingerly.

Fenris was still watching him, eyes dark yet ashine, unfathomably like Anders’ beloved green beyond. The days he’d believed in the Maker were long dead and gone, but right now, he dimly wondered if a God above had made him see the great wilds only to let him find them mirrored in another person again. Reverberated as a distorted fata morgana, still full of hope and yearning.

  _If_ there was a Maker.

Strange, he was sure he’d heard the little oak tree giggle from its place on the wooden board. When he gazed up to measure it with a calculating gaze, he found that Fenris’ eyes were following his, too.

‘Your precious child is a strange one, isn’t it?’

A pointed forefinger in his direction spoke a clear ‘It came from you. This is your fault,’ and Anders contented himself with a simple smile for an answer. Raking his hand through his messy hair, it caught in the tie and he loosened it with a grunt, letting the strands fall free from its hold.

‘C’mon, this day had been hell. Let’s get some sleep,’ he mumbled while he made his way back to the armchair only to be stopped by a hand grabbing his forearm. He could be mistaken, but the look in Fenris’ eyes said ‘Stay’. In capital letters.

‘You want me to stay?’ he asked to avoid misunderstandings; speaking what rang clear in his mind.  Fenris worried his lower lip in thought for a small moment until a second tug to his arm made his intentions clear.

‘I’ve already broken so many of your rules today. Are you really okay with me violating another one?’ Before he was able to question Fenris’ state of mind any more, Anders found himself pulled down by a force only a warrior could wield, forcing him to land next to the warm body with a thud.

‘’kay. Maybe this day isn’t so hellish anymore,’ he said as he settled in while Fenris threw the cover over him, too.

‘You might not want to hear it…but…I’m glad that I decided to break your rules today.’ He didn’t need to know that it had been Justice’s agenda to do so – that would’ve been too much information. For now.

Fenris’ face was close, so close; he could read every micro-expression as he processed the information, a frown evident on his fine features. This all would lead to a wordy sequel, that was for sure, but right now, Anders swam in a bubble of comfortableness that feared no consequences. And, wonder of all wonders, Fenris let it be and contented himself with a truce. Or stalemate.

When the elf’s breaths evened out, Anders followed them unconsciously.

Above them, the oak sapling seemed to watch over them, its giggle pearling through the moonlight flooded room like the jingle of a small bell, calling out to believers that had lost their faith ages ago.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BEDSHARING 
> 
> Hurhurhur!  
> (I'm a functioning adult woman, but, fuck, this is one of my fave tropes. Have fun.)


	16. summer is gone

Obsolete.

All his best-laid plans were in vain, sabotaged by no one other than himself.

Idiot.

Fool.

He would come up with a plethora of synonyms, yet contented himself with the two most obvious. Grinding his teeth only let tension travel down his throat to constrict his already aching lungs even more. Fenris wanted to be angry at Anders, at Justice, heck, at the whole wide world, yet in the end, the conclusion shone bright in all of its truth: He’d torn down the walls he’d erected around himself on his own, invited the mage and his demon in and they followed along, bringing chaos and turmoil in their wake.

And snoring comfort.

Gazing down at the reddish-blond mop of hair nestled in the crook of his neck intensified this feeling and Fenris found himself _indulging_ in it. Holding someone in their sleep felt…nice. He wasn’t able to remember the last time he’d been that at ease with someone so close by. He’d had his fair share of lovers, Isabela included, but he’d always left on silent soles after each encounter – let alone invited them to stay in his embrace.

 Anders’ breath was ghosting over his skin and his body radiated heat like a living furnace Fenris clung to even though he tried _not to_ with all of his might.

He should leave. Leave now, before things got more complicated than they already were.

But who was he fooling? He had already given in to the temptation that was the mage. He wasn’t sure when exactly the first of his walls began to crumble, but right now he lay defenseless by his own shortcomings. The strange thing was: it didn’t feel like defeat as it would’ve not so long ago. Even reaching out like he’d done last night, asking for warmth, for comfort and companionship felt right all of a sudden, and no survival instinct, no ancient fear was able to extinguish that emotion completely.

Anders shifted in his sleep, mumbling something undiscernible, before his newly grown stubble scratched over Fenris shoulder. He brushed the mage’s bangs to the side in a soft sweep, marveling at the dust of freckles high on his nose that had escaped his notice so far. There were more spanning over the apex of his shoulder, forming a patch that got lost somewhere above his shoulder blades. He followed them lightly with the tip of his forefinger.

Yesterday had been a disaster, but his talk with Hawke came to his mind as an image that shone like a beacon in the dark. His friend had the unerring tendency to face whatever issue and confront it head on. Hawke made him realize how much he’d already involved himself with the mage. Not by physical means or by some working dynamics they both had developed – but by romantic tendencies he’d ignored or brushed aside beforehand.

His gaze wandered up to look at the sapling sitting idly on the shelf. Maybe the small oak had been the very start of his walls crumbling, of his budding interest in the mage. There was no doubt that it displayed his yearning for being able to love, since the moment he gave in and started that whole project. His first intention was to spite Danarius and prove him wrong, but raising the plant had somewhere, somehow, transformed into falling for Anders along the road.

Moving to lie on is back, he put his palm over his face, groaning into it in frustration. That was it, wasn’t it? He’d fallen in love with most insufferable, impossible person in all of Thedas. The nasty voice in the back of his mind sounded like Danarius again when it whispered, that this wasn’t love, couldn’t be, because he was devoid of feeling such a thing. The thought left him restless, agitated, all drowsy comfortableness gone in an instant.

Untangling from Anders was harder than expected, but he needed fresh air to sort out his reeling mind. He placed the plaid laying discarded on the armchair over the sleeping man and tiptoed into the hallway, trying to find a way out – wherever ‘out’ might be.

To the left, the door opened to the clinic and Lirene stared at him in surprise, already up looking after the patients even though the sun had only begun to rise. Fenris could’ve been mistaken, but her gaze was laden with knowledge. His gut-instinct told him that she just _knew_. About him. About Anders. Them. All of it.

‘Are you okay, Serah?’ Her question somehow also included Anders in an unspoken way.

He smiled at her and nodded, not really trusting his voice after yesterday’s events.

‘He’s still asleep.’ Maker, he cawed like a crow, just as expected, but at least his voice was back. Suddenly, he remembered were he wanted to be. ‘I’ll...’ A cough cut his sentence short. ‘I’ll be upstairs,’ he finally managed, turning on his heel, not waiting for an answer.

He had to pause on the spiral stair, when his stamina faded to nothing and his breath came in wheezing gasps again. His shirt clung to his torso, soaked through with slowly cooling sweat. Taking tiny step after tiny step, he made it to the patio in the end, breathing in the sea breeze that felt like balm to his aching chest. The sky was overcast and heavy with rain yet to be spilled.

Fenris’ feet dragged him right to the majestic tree that towered over the garden. He gazed through its foliage for a moment before he slumped down to rest against its trunk and closed his eyes for a moment to gather his strength. The tree still possessed this magnifying pull that lured him in, yet strangely enough, he felt save under its wide branches.

‘You’re here since forever, aren’t you?’

Talking to a tree seemed idiotic, but Fenris had the urge to voice his thoughts even if his throat was raspy and raw – but at least an unresponsive creature wasn’t in the position for, well, opposition. It would hear him out.

‘You’ve seen it all. Haven’t you? The good and the bad.  Many strange things. Some with wise outcomes, some without meaning. And some borderline dim-witted. Like a former Tevene slave messing with a mage despite his best intentions…’

The leave-covered top rustled in the crisp wind as if to answer with nature’s full arsenal, whispering words hardly translatable.

‘Master always said that I’m unable to love another. He’d banished that side of me with branding me like cattle that patiently waits to be slaughtered. I’ve forgotten about anyone who’d ever cared for me. Only Master remained, so I clung to that. But he was right: That wasn’t love. Just belonging. You know, again: like cattle. I really thought that I don’t have it in me.’

Distant thunder made him flinch. A storm so early in the morning? That was unusual. The branches above him danced in the upcoming bad weather while the wilting sunflowers swayed and dipped their heads, following the wind’s force, yet here he sat like in an isolated little world that merely existed right under the old oak, shielded and hidden away from the unforgiving reality.

He plucked at something lying on the ground next to him. Fenris smiled at it with a fondness that surprised him: The acorn fit into the dip of his palm just perfectly.

‘Danarius said that I’m nothing but a weapon, all cold steel and lyrium, unfeeling, unable to form, to raise something out of the depth of my heart. And…and I believed him, as stupid as that may sound…I just did.’ Halting is gush of words, he turned the little seed in his palm. ‘It was you who made me change my mind. You and… _him_. I’m still lousy at noticing anything concerning other people’s hearts for I still don’t really know my own…but I’m beginning to get a hang for it, like learning a new language. I will learn to raise things and I’ll learn how to really love someone. Maybe I already do.’

Thunder was rolling over the horizon and the first droplets of rain found the dusty ground. The smell of moist earth hung in the air as an omen for the change of seasons and Fenris took a deep lungful of it. The constriction in his chest was slowly dissolving and he welcomed the approaching storm with a smile.

‘Summer will be gone in a short while, but I guess you’ve already noticed. Trees are bound to notice things like that, don’t they?’

Fenris didn’t expect an answer – of course not, so he jerked upright when a familiar voice chirped in.

‘Yes, they do. Trees follow the seasons more than any other creature in the world. But, Maker, Fenris, you are sitting drenched to the bones under this huge tree for hours while a thunderstorm is raging. Do me a favor and come back inside.’

Strange, hadn’t it just begun to drip a bit? Gazing down his wet clothes, Fenris frown deepened. When did he get soaked through like that? He hadn’t noticed one bit. And what about sitting here for hours? It had been fifteen minutes, at best. He stared at the treetop in mute accusation. The oak was altering time a tad again, that was the only remotely sane explanation.

Looking up, Fenris found the mage standing crouched above him, his feathery coat slung over his shoulders and head to shield them from the downpour. The rain had plastered the feathering to his cheeks and forehead, and that alone should’ve let him look like a wet chicken, yet the intense stare trained on him squished that thought as soon as it appeared.

‘Anders.’

The name slipped from his lips unbidden, but it sounded like a soft promise. The other’s eyes widened in surprise, then lit up with a genuine mirth that would’ve been able to replace the sun hidden behind the layer of clouds.

‘That’s the first time,’ he said, and Fenris couldn’t help but stare at him on confusion. ‘My name, I mean. It’s the first time you’re calling me not by an attribute. No ‘mage’ or whatever else. I’ve finally gained enough individuality to be called by my name, haven’t I?’

A droplet of rain pearled down Fenris’ nose as he sat there flabbergasted. He’d never noticed, but now that he thought about it, this statement was painfully true.

‘You’ve always been an individuum. But calling you by your name would’ve been too…personal.’ It was an admission, he was well aware, and he bared himself again, yet his heart told him that it was the right course of action.

Anders crouched down close, his cloak serving as an interim tent, and Fenris took in the scent of sleep and Elfroot that engulfed him.

‘But now I’ve became personal enough to be graced with my name, haven’t I?’

His whisper was on the brink of becoming lascivious, and Fenris felt his own crooked smile slip in place. Damn, they were flirting again in their awkward, lousy way. He wanted to retort that they’ve gotten _personal_   quite some time ago, but Anders wasn’t only referring to their tryst in the clinic but to their change in relationship – and he deserved an honest answer.

Only that it didn’t come easy for Fenris. Talking with a tree proved to be a task way more natural than talking about this – as loony as that might sound.

‘We…we are doing this wrong, you know,’ he finally managed after a pause of thought. ‘We went from antagonistic to…this. No in-betweens, no gradual approach – we tumbled into each other without rational thought and now…now we can’t get away, can we?’

Anders’ face fell, all mirth gone in the blink of an eye.

‘Do you want to get away? If you want to end the…the thing between us, I won’t stay in your way. You’re free to go.’

The last sentence struck Fenris like the lightning bolts that hissed across the sky above them. He was given a chance, a way out: The mage was granting him freedom even if it meant that he would be left behind heartbroken. That was the real difference between Danarius and Anders: One installed possession, the other held choice.

He only had to choose.

Leaving the cocoon of the mage’s coat, Fenris rose to stand under the old oak, soaked through to the bone as he gazed down at Anders who waited in patience for whatever was to come.

‘I was branded like cattle, unable to have a will of my own for the longest time. I guess you know that feeling well, don’t you.’ He saw recognition flash in the other’s eyes and he took in a deep breath. ‘But now, I can pick my own path, with all the up and down sides of that. Maybe this will be a horrible mistake, but at least it will be one I made on my own.’

Reaching out his hand, his words almost got lost over the roaring thunder that echoed across the patio.

‘I don’t want to get away, though I’m not really sure where we are heading.’

Anders understood the offer for what it was meant to be and took his hand, rising to full height.

‘We?’

The question was laden with so much hope, it hovered in the air between them and Fenris plucked it from there with a small smile.

‘Yes, _we_.’

‘So, you’re saying that we are dating, or what? I mean, hey, we are holding hands, isn’t that already awfully romantic? Maybe we can have a picnic out here in drenched clothes! That would be kinda awesome.’

‘You really know how to spoil the mood, mage.’

‘And you have a knack for dramatic scenery, honestly. Proposing a relationship with a storm raging all around us, that’s quite some feat, don’t you think?’

Fenris sighed in exasperation. What had he signed up to? A blabbering, loudmouthed mage with an awkward sense of humor- and the brightest eyes in all of Thedas, because, right now, Anders was outright beaming at him.

Instead of gracing him with an answer, Fenris tugged him across the garden, heading straight for the door that would lead them down to the clinic. Glancing back over his shoulder, Anders had his silly smile still stuck in place, looking positively goofy all soaked through. Something bubbled up in Fenris’ stomach, spreading warmth throughout his whole body.

Belatedly, he recognized it as happiness.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed the oak swaying in the storm, waving its goodbye with dancing branches. Fenris felt the urge to mirror the gesture as a silent ‘thank you’ and, in the end he gave in to the impulse. Anders followed his gaze with an eyebrow raised in question, but whatever might’ve crossed his mind, he kept it to himself for once, thank the Maker.

They were already in the hallway to the stairs when the tree’s good-natured laugh got lost in the howling wind.

 

 


	17. big, bad secrets

_He did the right thing, even though the girl will hold it against him forever._

Yes, most likely – and now that Anders took note of how fumingly angry Merrill stomped down the slopes of Sundermount, he mentally scratched the ‘most likely’ in order to replace it with a ‘definitely’.

In capital letters. 

Aveline served as a buffer between the furious elf and the rest of the group as they made their way back to town. Denying her the possession of that damned knife was one of Hawke’s wisest decisions, but didn’t change the fact that Merrill had not an ounce of understanding in store for it. The look of utter betrayal on her face in that moment hit him even though it wasn’t directed at him.

Casting a sideway glance at Hawke, he cringed inwardly: The man was a mess. Eyes trained to the ground, lost in thought and guilt-stricken lines around his mouth, he looked torn, miserable. Anders was sure that he could hear the grinding of his teeth. Merrill’s hostile reaction seemed to be a blow too hard to stomach and Anders began to ask himself why. Hawke had followed his beliefs, as always, and handing over the Arulin’holm would’ve ushered the girl further into blood magic – and there was no way Hawke would stand up for that. Anders had outright expected the declining, even welcomed it. What puzzled him was their leader’s unusual reaction to the whole debacle: Hawke wasn’t one to whither and decay after a confrontation with a companion.

_You were so engrossed with your own elf that you haven’t noticed, have you._

Justice’s remark let him perk up. What? What had he missed? His gaze travelled from Merrill’s retreating form to Hawke’s stumbling steps and he took a moment to reconsider.

_You’ve seen the hidden glances, noticed his awkward laugh when the pirate queen accused you of flirting with the girl. You know more of those things than I do, yet your thoughts were elsewhere, so you didn’t really see, did you?_

Maker’s breath.

‘You’ve fallen for her, haven’t you?’

His question let Hawke jerk back like being hit by a physical blow. Aveline turned to cast him a glance of silent warning over the top of her shoulder, but he ignored her as he stepped up closer to the rogue.

‘That’s why all of this has sent you into misery.’

Hawke’s answering laugh was devoid of any happiness, an ugly hollow thing that bounced off the granite walls all around them.

‘Happens when you have to decide between the love of your life and every conviction you’ve ever had.’ He paused, sucking in a breath that seemed to hurt him, before he was able to continue. ‘I didn’t even notice how deep I’m in before she looked at me as if I’d murdered her mother in cold blood. But I couldn’t have both: Her happiness _and_ keeping her save. Better she’s mad at me, but hale and hearty than the other way around. I don’t want to see her fall prey to a demon by her own choice if I can avoid it.’

Anders could’ve been mistaken but Hawke’s words were laden with tears barely held back.

‘Fuck, that’s really some shit decision to make,’ he said lamely, sounding fake to his own ears, his mind was already reeling again.

The thought hit home too close for comfort, reminding him of the very moment Justice transformed into Vengeance and charged at Fenris. He would disavow any and all resemblance with Merrill, yet under that specific light they were awfully alike: They invited in demons that were hard to control – if at all.

_Also remember your lover’s promise to kill us off when things would get out of hand? That’s pretty much the same dilemma, isn’t it?_

Swallowing down his own uneasiness proved to be a task too hard to handle, so he exhaled a shuddering sigh that brought no relief.

‘She won’t hate you – at least not for long.’

‘I wouldn’t count on that – she loves that stupid mirror more than me – that much is obvious. She’d sold her soul for it…I’m barely tolerated in her presence right now.’

‘Then…then write her a letter. Explain things. Maybe this will pour oil on troubled water.’

Hawke eyed him in honest amusement.

‘Like it did with your little note to Fenris?’

Wait.

Anders was frozen to the spot.

Wait…did Fenris really run off to Hawke to gush about his stupid message? He hadn’t taken the elf for someone who gossiped his affairs to others – even if they were as close to him as Hawke was.

‘Don’t get any wrong ideas, your precious was pretty much out of options, believe me.’

The more Hawke talked, the less he made sense. The question mark above his head must’ve been visible, because the other shook his head with a sigh and graced him with one of his sheepish glances that let the old, joking version of him shine through.

‘He still hasn’t told you, has he…damn, that’s…inconvenient. Fuck, I’ve blown his secret, haven’t I?’

Anders wasn’t a patient man, even under more fortunate circumstances, and he gave Hawke a bonus for being emotionally stressed, but if that charade carried on any longer, he was about to have a fit. And a solid one on top of that. It was already bad enough that he’d overlooked the blossoming attraction between the rogue and Merrill – but being left in the dark concerning his own very delicate relationship status left him close to throwing a temper tantrum.

_‘Hawke.’_

The word was a growl, a warning.

‘Fuck, and here I thought this day couldn’t get any worse…Fenris will roast my nuts if he got to know that I’ve spilled it. But whatever. Merrill’s already in Berserker-mode, why not have _two_ elves going for my head?’

_‘HAWKE.’_

Wiping sweat from his brow, he halted his steps to level Anders with a hard stare, the tension thick in the air all around them.

‘Fenris can’t read. Or more precisely: He was denied achieving that skill. He said it would’ve been unbecoming of a slave.’

A bucket of ice-cold water was emptied right above his head, drenching him in frozen shock. Or at least, it felt like that. A whole lot of things were suddenly starting to make sense though: Fenris’ mute refusal to help him deciphering Merrill’s grimoire and his evading behavior whenever that topic came up. He’d always wrote it off as one of his untouchable boundaries, as a line not to cross, and, somehow it was exactly that.

Only that this secret hurt beyond everything because it spoke of mistrust and compartmentalization. Along with that, disappointment crept into his bones, leaving him hollow and haggard: He wasn’t worth of being told the truth. Hawke’s insistent voice fished him back to matters at hand.

‘He came to me to have your note read out for him. He’s ashamed, Anders. He sees this as a taint, a flaw and hides it to the best of his abilities – and normally this works rather well. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it’s eloquent and self-assured. You wouldn’t have guessed, neither would’ve I. Don’t hold it against him, will ya?’

‘Why haven’t he told me? I…I don’t get it,’ Anders said, stumbling upon his own words. ‘I could’ve even taught him…’

‘I guess it’s as I said: He’s deeply ashamed of his illiteracy, that’s why it’s his big, bad secret. Also, in case you haven’t noticed: Fenris is a very proud man. It’s most likely his pride that has gotten in the way, too.’

Yes, that sounded like Fenris - painfully so.

Resting his hands on Hawke’s shoulders, Anders stared at him for a moment, then spoke with urgency, the sentences rushing past his lips unchecked.

‘Forget what I said about writing a letter: Go, and talk to Merrill. Make her see reason. Explain your motivations as you’ve done with me, she’ll see the truth in them sooner or later. Please, don’t let this clash hold you back. If she’s the one, then spill your heart to her, I’m sure you’re more important to her than any elven artefact could ever be.’

‘Wow, that was some damn passionate speech, mage.’

Somehow they both had completely forgotten about Aveline standing right in front of them, and they both jerked up in surprise like children caught with their hands stuck in the cookie jar.

‘He’s absolutely right for once though, Hawke. Go, and speak to Merrill, things will eventually sort themselves out, I’m sure.’

Hawke was stunned to silence, but his smile was back and he nodded as he hurried ahead to catch up with her.

‘So, you and Fenris, eh? How did _that_ happen?’

Anders turned and braced himself to face a snappish Aveline, but was taken off guard by the fond expression that had spread across her features.

‘Like most things do: Gradually.’

That wasn’t really and answer to her question, he was well aware, yet talking to the warrior was always more on the tricky side: He and Fenris fought because of their different mindsets, but proved to be eerily similar in every other aspect – but Aveline…he had nothing in common her and vice versa. Weren’t it for Hawke and his unique ability to attract and amass the strangest kind of people, the two of them wouldn’t interact at all.

‘You two always had that special… _dynamics_ …going on, hadn’t you?’

But obviously that lack of comparability didn’t rule out the most basic of all relationships, and Anders could’ve slapped himself because he overlooked an important fact once more: Aveline cared – not like a friend would, like Hawke would, but she was well-meaning towards every companion and ultimately meant no harm.  More often than not, Anders had accused her of the contrary given her job and convictions and, now, he walked beside her dumbfounded by her friendly approach.  Any further words got stuck in his throat, so he just nodded and hoped that would serve as a sufficient answer.

‘Sometimes, you grow into liking someone, the shift so subtle, that you don’t notice it at first…yet it’s _there_ , and some happenstance forces you to recognize it for what it is. Only that you’ve got no chance to back out again. You can’t undo your feelings and have to face the consequences.’

Aveline had talked herself into a fit of her own and stopped once he got aware on how invested she’d become. A flush spread over her cheeks and she lowered her gaze in embarrassment.

‘Seems that you know what you’re talking about – and I’m definitely not the only one who’s able to rant about romance,’ Anders couldn’t help but state in a dry voice. It was her turn to nod and the silence between stretched in a way that bordered on being amiable. Anders was curious to get to know who her well-hidden crush might be, but he decided to keep his mouth shut and her secret save from prying words.

They reached Kirkwall’s gate the moment the sky decided to open up again and Anders cursed under his breath when he got soaked through to the bones the second time within a few weeks. Parting with a simple wave, he headed home with fast steps, the air humid and lukewarm with the downpour that descended over the city.

He found the clinic in working order with only a few residents, so he went straight for his quarters, already peeling out of the sodden clothing – and stood frozen to the spot in the doorway upon the sight that greeted him: Collapsed in his worn armchair with Merrill’s book in lap sat Fenris. His head had lolled to the side; his soft lips slightly parted and fast asleep. The great-sword leant against the backrest within easy reach though, serving as his last line of defense once more.

Giddiness bubbled up in Anders’ stomach that spoke of more than infuriation and he took a moment to savor that feeling. The two of them had yet to settle into a routine around each other and even though Fenris visited him often, the elf still had a great need for space. Actually, it was the first time he decided to show up when Anders wasn’t around, decided to stay nonetheless and make himself comfortable in Anders’ realm. Obviously he felt so much at ease here that he’d let his guard down enough to fall asleep.

Tiptoeing to the clothes rack to get rid of his soaked coat, he was sure to be in his best stealth-mode, yet sudden movement out of the corner of his eyes made him pause. When the tip of the sword came to rest a few inches below his Adam’s apple, he groaned in frustration.

‘That’s my room, Fenris. I kinda have the right to be here, you know…’

The blade was lowered instantly.

‘I…I acted out of instinct, I’m sorry. I forgot where I am…and I hadn’t planned on falling asleep in your armchair.’ He combed a hand through his tousled hair and sheathed his weapon in one fluent motion, still avoiding Anders’ questioning gaze.

‘I guess some things won’t change. You will always be on the run, expecting a threat in all and everything.’

‘That’s how I’d survived for such a long time.’

‘I know, and I’m glad you did. But you’re safe here.’

His eyes snapped up, hardened like shards of jade. ‘There’s no such thing as safety in this world. I’m an escaped slave with a warrant on my head – the hunters can catch up on my trail every day, any moment.’

Picking up the discarded grimoire from where it lay on the dusty floor, he put it back on the desk. He leaned upon its wooden surface with both hands, more addressing the book than the other.

‘That’s what you’ve signed up for, mage.’

‘I know, Andraste’s sweet mercy, I fucking _know_ ,’ he said, while he pulled his wet tunic over his head to throw it into the nearest corner with more force than necessary. ‘It didn’t hold me back, did it?’

‘No.’

Fenris’ voice sounded uncharacteristically small, and regret settled in his stomach with a pang. He turned to retrieve his maltreated tunic to place it next to his coat to dry.  Fussing with the fabric, he didn’t dare to turn and face Fenris.

‘I didn’t mean to shout. Why are we arguing again…’

He began to worry when he received no immediate answer, and flinched when a hand covered in gauntlets skimmed over his bare back, barely touching his cold, clammy skin.

‘Those…those are whip scars…’ The tip of a gauntlet found a line and followed it lightly. ‘Burns…you have been tortured.’

Anders felt his throat constrict.

‘Templars.’

One word had to be enough. He’d always been vocal about the Templar’s misuse of power, but his rants had been abstract, when he spoke of ‘mages’ in plural and never included himself as a person. Standing right in front of his lover bearing the marks of his imprisonment with all that came along with them was something completely else. He’d revealed his very own big, bad secret without intending to: He’d simply forgotten in the spur of the moment.

‘And Templars could rush in here every day, any moment, in order to drag me to certain death. That’s what you’ve singed up to, too. I hope you also remember that.’

A kiss was pressed to the base of his nape; others followed each vertebra with little nips as warm breath ghosting over his scarred skin, but Fenris armored hands were gone in sudden understanding only to return unclad, mapping the expanse of his back with wide-spread fingers.

‘There’s no safety in the world outside,’ Fenris murmured against his shoulder. ‘That’s why we have to recreate it for us. Here. Between us.’

Anders was left to nod, all words gone, leaning into the hands that spoke even louder than Fenris’ words.

‘Come, you’re freezing cold.’

He already mourned the loss of touch the second Fenris retreated, but his old blanket being placed over his shoulders was enough shelter to do for the moment.

He watched as the elf shucked out of his armor to climb onto the bed and beckoned him to come closer: That was definitely a sight he could get used to.

‘Cuddling time?’ he asked, huddling closer.

‘I’m saving you from hypothermia, idiot.’

A laugh tore from his throat, honest and true. ‘You really know how to lighten the mood with a good joke.’

‘Just shut up and come closer.’

Anders settled the plaid around them both and folded his larger frame to fit next to his lover, resting his head on his shoulder. Merrill’s book still awaited translation, and Hawke would most likely have his balls roasted by Fenris once it became obvious that his secret had been lifted, but Anders almost looked forward to it.

He didn’t know how many big, bad secrets the two of them had in store for each other, but if they were to work out like this, he would face them head on.

 

And he was sure that Fenris would do the same.

 

 


	18. rage demon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris has some serious anger issues, hasn't he?  
> Also: Oh look! We've encountered canon-verse again!

Fenris knew that something was off the moment they left Kirkwall and turned towards the Wounded Coast’s sharp shoreline: Thunder hung in the air even though not a single cloud was to be seen, the sky cerulean blue as if to mock him with its clarity.

But Fenris knew better: There was a storm brewing, unseen behind the horizon, sending tendrils of electricity ahead that resonated down to his bones. Maybe it wasn’t only the change in atmosphere that was palpable, but the tension in their group: Merrill still didn’t spare Hawke a single glance and after what Anders had told him about what had happened on Sundermount, he kept the bloodmage under constant supervision, which made Merrill nervous in return: A merry-go-round of tight-winding energy without any outlet.

The fact that Merrill was his best chance to decipher the paragraph on his brand’s origin sat like lead in his stomach, but he wouldn’t scarify his convictions for a chance to get an answer on that. Revealing his illiteracy to anyone besides Hawke was out of option anyway and his gaze strayed to his lover in a mix of guilt and shame. Damn…he owed him some dire answers and felt incapable to deliver them.

Sensing the bad vibrations, Anders tried to brighten the mood by playing the joker, pulling one lousy pun after the next without achieving anything, testing everyone’s nerves further with his loose mouth. 

‘Stop that, you only make it worse with…,’ Fenris wanted to start a tirade, but halted his words when he caught something out of the corner of his eyes that didn’t fit into the idyllic scenery: A drawn weapon gleaming in the off-light of the sun, giving away an ambush from uphill. His brands activated out of instinct as he charged forwards, his battle cry a distorted wail that bounced off the granite walls surrounding them. He dimly registered that an arrow got lodged in his thigh on the way, but he tuned out the pain, running on anger and adrenaline.

A magical barrier formed around him in protection and he had to grant himself a small smile the moment Anders’ familiar healing washed over him in a soothing current. There was no doubt that the attacks were mainly focused on him, and Fenris thanked the Maker when Hawke’s blades felled another opponent that tried in vain to sneak up on him from behind to get through his defenses.

‘Hunters,’ Hawke snarled, settling in front of him to get him out of the line of fire.

‘They’ve found me at last.’

Twisted relief dropped from his heart like a bad omen finally becoming visible after having hovered over his head for such a long time.

‘They won’t get you.’

Anders’ voice was laced with fury and determination, stepping up beside him with his staff still gleaming in a halo of concentrated frost. The display of open support took Fenris off guard when even Merrill renewed the magical shield all around him.

Fenris had never considered himself to be a very sociable person: He’d kept away from other beings in order to spare him - and them - pain. But things had changed since he came to Kirkwall. His gaze wandered over the people around him: Hawke had become his first, real friend and he would follow him into battle no matter what. Merrill was dangerous and her bloodmagic would lead her to doom for sure sooner or later, yet at least she _intended_ no harm. Strangely enough they were companions enough to stand up for each other if push came to shove despite their differences. And Anders…they’d come a long, long way from throwing the worst insults imaginable at each other over begrudging truces to tentative approaches full of awkward fumbling, dead ends and wrong turns. They hadn’t given up on each other though, had they?

Fenris would’ve never imagined that he would find himself a lover - and an apostate mage on top of that - when he stepped off the ship that brought him to the city’s port.

The Maker must’ve some really weird sense of humor to let him find a slice of happiness in Thedas’ old slaver paradise.

He was so engrossed in his mindscape that only the shouting-match between Hawke and one of the slave hunters brought him back to matters at hand.

‘Fenris belongs to no one, he’s a free man!’

These were the words he always yearned to hear, and their meaning sank in true and honest. Elation flowed through his veins, golden like the sun. Freedom is a state of mind, or at least the saying went like that, but for him, it had always meant so much more. He considered himself free, even though he would always have to fight for it:  This dichotomy would stay until he would finally get rid of the very person who wanted to chain him again - and what was elation a moment ago, morphed into something completely different, bubbling up from deep within.

‘I’m no slave!’

He barely recognized his own voice as rage gnawed at his very soul once more. Was this how demons were able to take hold of living beings? To be nothing but reduced to one, single emotion? Anger infested in the center of his chest to spiral outwards to his limbs as he pushed forwards, facing his next enemy, rushing into battle like there were wings on his feet.

Maybe he was indeed turning into a rage demon, but he would be damned if he let the opportunity slip by to get his tormentor into his hands, so righteous anger fueled each of his strikes until he saw nothing but blood and grime.

In the end, dead bodies littered the ground all around him. He bent over the last of the hunters to sink his claws into the scalp, yanking his head to the side to snap his neck after he’d retrieved the information he needed. The crunch of broken bone was sickening loud in the sudden silence after the fight, and Merrill flinched even though she was more than used to battle right now.

‘…who’s Hadriana? Is that someone you know?’ Anders question was soft, trying to smother the anger that must still be obvious in his face, in every of his gestures.

Taking a deep breath, Fenris tried to cool down his still boiling blood, but only achieved to sheath his great sword with shaking hands, the rage still present in every cell of his body.

‘She’s my former master’s apprentice. A vile creature who would sell her own children if that would get her what she yearns for. A viper with no mercy. I have to decapitate her as soon as possible.’

‘Then let’s get on a snake hunt and smoke out this slithering beast,’ Hawke said as he stepped up beside him, twirling his dagger between his fingers to underline the statement. Fenris knew he was flashing him his evil, petty smile, but Hawke’s lust for blood just hit the right tune in him.

Hadriana’s hideout wasn’t more than an hour away, and the whole group followed him unasked when he headed that way with fast steps. He needed to get this over with. Now. For once he wasn’t the hunted but the hunter and that change of paradigm fueled his drive even more.

In the end, his encounter in the slaver caves proved to be not what he’d expected. When they stumbled upon the slave girl who stood in front of them shaken to her core telling them of Hadriana’s atrocities, Fenris was awash in memories he desperately tried to bury in the most distant corner of his soul. She reminded him of everything he wanted to leave behind: to be at one’s mercy with no chance to escape. And worse than that: to deem that state _normal_ , Maker, even embracing it.

‘Are you my master now?’

Her question crashed through his mind with the velocity of light, leaving bloody welts in its wake he could almost feel as if there were real, burning raw on his skin.

‘No! I’m not your master!’ His rebuke sounded almost repulsed, but he couldn’t help himself.

Her shocking green eyes looked at him pleadingly, asking for help, for direction – and Fenris felt himself struggling for an answer. He wanted to set her free, but at the same time, he was painfully aware that she wasn’t fit to meet freedom yet: She wouldn’t survive a single day on her own.

‘If you would go to Kirkwall, I could help you.’

Hawke’s soft-spoken words solved his dilemma – at least until a nasty thought took hold and made room for doubt and treason.

‘I didn’t know you to keep slaves,’ Fenris spat and watched his friend’s face crumble with hurt.

‘I offered her a job, Fenris. I employed her.’

Maker, what had gotten into him today? Of course Hawke wouldn’t sink that low to engage in slavery, and Fenris knew that, knew that by heart. Where did this deep mistrust come from suddenly? He must be out of his mind.

‘Ah, I see, I’m sorry.’

A string of stumbled words didn’t really pass as an apology, but Hawke nodded and headed on, followed by Merrill who glared daggers in his direction. It was Anders gaze that asked him ‘what the fuck was that?’ in capital letters, but Fenris decided to ignore him for embarrassment was still running hot through his veins.

Hawke wasn’t his enemy, neither was anyone of their group, but his focus seemed to be off today, made him snap at anything mildly insulting or threatening. It didn’t prove to be the weather that seemed off, or the group dynamics: He himself was the cause for those turbulences he felt earlier.

Unseen, he had a rage demon hot on his heels, grasping for his soul at any moment. Frankly spoken: It had always been there for as long as he could remember, simmering right on his skin. An ancient anger that knew no form, no shape, something that was easily triggered and let off its leash. Yet today, it seemed to be realer than ever, its presence tangible, like a hot breath that ghosted over the base of his neck.

A shiver ran down his spine, and he dug the tips of his gauntlets into his palms to distract himself from the severity of this realization.

He needed to get this over with, and end this witch hunt as soon as possible, before he lost himself in rage and rampage.

Anders fell in step beside him as they roamed the endless corridors, his question still lingering in his sideway glances, but he kept silent – and that fact alone unsettled Fenris more than he liked to admit. The mage wasn’t one to swallow his comments that easily. No, chances were high that his lover tried his hardest not to worsen his foul mood any further, and he thanked the Maker and Andraste for this small favor. He wasn’t sure if he would be able to rein in his temper if it would come to one of their former nasty verbal confrontations: He didn’t trust his tongue at the moment. Fenris hoped that the tentative smile he graced Anders with would serve as a decent ‘thank you and I’m sorry’.

Before the mage had any chance to react, a horde of shades appeared out of nowhere, slashing their way between them with their unholy roar, and all hell was let loose once more, only this time, Fenris kept his focus in the constant search for the one conductor that orchestrated this whole cacophony.

Through the masses of demons and raised dead, Hadriana stood out at the far end of the room with her brightly colored robes like a lighthouse in a sea of grey, and Fenris thanked her vanity for it made her so easy to spot, even if she continued to play her magical hide and seek game.

_Closer._

He needed to get closer. Once he would’ve had her in his hands, this gamble would be over.

_Still too far away._

His mind screamed at him to hurry, to stride on no matter the consequences, because this was his fight for freedom and all would be worth the costs.

It had to be worth it.

_Closer. Just a bit closer._

His sword danced all around him, one high arch after the next as he spun on his axis to propel himself forwards. He beheaded a walking corpse in the downswing, just as another shade tore its claws across his flank to stop his onslaught. His armor took the brunt of the attack, yet he felt blood run down his torso and waited for the pain that blossomed a moment later.  

He didn’t care. Pain wouldn’t stop him and he continued his run through the rows of enemies. He was already so close, close enough to see the fear in the magistra’s eyes. Just one more step and he would be in range.

With a flash of white, Hadriana disappeared again and Fenris’ angry howl cascaded down the hallways in an ugly echo. He turned on his heel once he noticed her at the opposite corner, where she rematerialized right next to Anders.

Surprise and schadenfreude lit up in his brown eyes upon her strategical error as he trapped her in a solid wall of ice and continued to rain frost on her.

‘Hurry, Fenris!’

He wasn’t in need for a second invitation and already half-way there, uncaring for the trail of red he left in his wake. His sword hovered over her in promise of death and destruction the moment Anders’ barrier of ice broke with a clank.

‘Gotcha.’

A pained gurgle escaped her as she sank to the ground, fighting for air. He could end this, end it now and for all times: All he had to do was letting the blade hit home and all would be done and over.

The ancient rage was back full force, licking its blue-hot flames over his skin, eating at him– and Fenris found that he cherished the heat it provided. It was part of him for the longest time, why fight it now? He was dimly aware that Hadriana was pleading for her life, spoke of information valuable to him, but she was hard to hear over the blood still rushing through his ears and the anger that pumped through him in waves.

‘There’s only one person I want dead more,’ he spat, watching her squirm in fear, trying so sell out her master’s whereabouts, but failing miserably. There was no need to seek out Danarius: He would come for him, not the other way around – and this thought alone let the steady flames morph into an inferno that knew no boundaries.

‘You have a sister, she is alive.’

For the second time in one day, a single sentence was able to crash through his consciousness and made him loose his posture. Hadriana was back at bargaining for her lousy life and Fenris felt tempted for fraction of a second before the familiar rage took hold of him again.

‘You have my word.’

He sounded fake and false, but he could care less.

‘Fenris…,’ Anders spoke up, fixating him with a questioning stare. Of course, Anders would see through the ruse right away, yet he didn’t attempt to hold him back.

The decision was his, his alone. He was a free man, indeed.

Hadriana spilled her secret with rushed words, and triumph rose in Fenris, filling him up to the brim as it mingled and merged with the flames. No demon could be crueler when he leant over her with a small smile on his lips.

‘I do believe you,’ he said the moment his brands filled the room with their eerie-white glow. He enjoyed that fear and sudden knowing was the last thing he saw in the magistra’s eyes before he phased through her rib case, squishing her heart like an over-ripe fruit.

Fenris could hear the rage demon laugh. Not behind him, hot on his trail, like he did all the other times.

 

It laughed from deep within.

 


	19. full stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prepeare for an emotional rollercoaster over the course of the next few chapters, okay.

_I told you. I told you so many times, Anders. Look at him: He’s a beast, he kills without remorse._

Anders _knew_.

Anders _saw_.

Yet the person he loved from the bottom of his heart was still recognizable to him even through all the blood and grime, despite the blind rage and carnage. The magistra stared up at him from lifeless eyes as if to beg to differ. She’d gotten what she deserved, what was long overdue, and even Justice approved of her fate. What his spirit sanctioned though was the _how,_ the very course of action.

_He broke his promise in the blink of an eye and let rage lead his hand. He will turn against you, us, in the very same manner._

Anders’ whispered ‘He won’t…’ got lost as Fenris rose to full height again and turned away as if the blank disgust upon the scene in front of him made him nauseous. Maybe it did.

‘We’re done here.’

His growled words were final, a full stop to the drama that had unfurled here. Next to his boiling anger, there lay a bone-deep tiredness in Fenris’ stance that belied his triumph over his tormentor. Nothing, absolutely nothing about this felt like victory.

Anders took a small step forwards, extending his hand as an offering. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

Fenris recoiled instantly, the gesture instinctive and unguarded. ‘No! I don’t want to talk about it!’ his voice boomed through the narrow room, while he spun around to face Anders with fury reverberating in each syllable he spat. ‘This could be a trap, all of this an orchestrated charade, even this tale of my…sister. Hadriana could’ve been sent to lure me in, to spur me into a suicide mission. But all that matters is that I’ve been finally able to crush this witch’s heart.’

His face seemed to harden like stone: A fine chiseled marble sculpture that knew no mercy. Thankfully, he turned away again. Anders wasn’t sure if he could’ve stomached to sight of his lover’s bitter features any longer.

‘May she rot, and all the other mages with her,’ Fenris growled. Another full stop, another sentence that eluded opposition and Anders’ heart sank with a pain he believed to have buried a long time ago.

‘Maybe we should leave…,’ he tried to evade the clash he once more felt approaching like a horde of Darkspawn due to his Warden blood. His hand reached out to settle lightly on the other’s shoulder for emphasis, but slipped off without effect when Fenris shifted again.

‘No, I don’t want you to comfort me,’ he said with lightning flickering in his green eyes. ‘You’ve seen what happened here: This is what mages do, to the fullest extent. There will always be a reason for them to justify their deeds. Always. What does magic touch that it doesn’t spoil?’

Anders felt as if he’d been slapped: Full to the face, breaking through defenses that were never there in the first place. Justice rushed to his aid, breaking to the front to shield him from further damage, but Fenris had already turned his back on him.

‘I…need to go.’

His parting words reached Anders through wads of cotton: Dull shards that only served to heighten the pain already coursing through his system. Strangely enough, even Justice kept silent. Not a word of ‘I told you’ or ‘you should’ve known’. No need to answer with an ‘I knew’ and ‘I saw.’

A soft hand grasping his plucked him down to earth again. A different set of green elven eyes looked up at him with unexpected kindness and there was a strange warmth right behind him.

‘He…he didn’t mean it like that, believe me. It’s his anger that made him lash out like that. Let him cool down on his own. He loves you, remember? Come on, Anders. There’s nothing left to be done here.’

Merrill tugged at his hand, and his feet followed her demand on auto-pilot. Belatedly, he identified the presence behind him as Hawke who secured their retreat down to the Wounded Coast. He should’ve welcomed the silence after a fallout like that, but it made Fenris’ vile words echo through his mind even louder.

It was back: The old disgust in regard of his magical powers, on his status as a mage, and that fact alone felt as if they’d come back to square one again, nullifying all the hard-won progress they achieved. Another full stop with no way back or forth.

Anders moved trance-like as they finally passed through the city. Kirkwall was ashine in the last rays of fading sunlight, but he had no eye for that.

‘You know, sometimes you lash out at people you love because they stand in the way of what you deem right.’ Merrill’s voice reached him distantly and he had to force himself to focus on it.

‘Sometimes they got caught up in cross-fire, an attack not meant for them. Like you did today.’ He was well aware that Merrill tried to cheer him up, but he wasn’t sure if she was really talking about him and Fenris and not about herself and Hawke. Maybe it was both, all in one. He felt no need to call her out on that: She had her own battle to fight, her own problems to deal with.

‘Give him time to sort himself out. He will return to you once he noticed his mistake.’ She pressed his hand to underscore her words, and Anders only noticed then and there that she was still leading him by the hand like a mother would with a child that had gone lost in the woods for some time. It should’ve felt awkward, but actually, it wasn’t. Like that, she grounded him in a reality that would’ve otherwise slipped by. Merrill, as blind-sighted and naïve as she could be on matters concerning her, displayed a high level of empathy and wisdom when it came to others, and Anders pressed her hand back in silent thanks.

‘You…you would’ve made a fine keeper, Merrill,’ he said, and watched her turn to grace him with one of that soulful looks that let the inherited old magic shine through.

‘No. I wouldn’t. I’m way too selfish.’

Beside him, Hawke stepped up, and Anders had to smile at the sight of his knight-in-shining-armor-demeanor.

‘You aren’t, Merrill. You are just strong-willed,’ Hawke countered instantly.

Her answering laugh was a tad forced. ‘That’s my best _and_ worst trait, isn’t it?’

‘Definitely.’

Hawke’s eyes were ashine with so much genuine adoration that it made Anders wonder if he had ever looked at Fenris like that. He probably had, and would continue to do so, no matter what.

_That’s a stupid decision, my friend._

‘You don’t decide to fall in love. It just happens.’

Both of his companions stared at him in wonder, and Anders realized with a groan that he’d spoken aloud what had been meant for Justice only.

‘Yes, it just happens,’ Merrill picked up his line after a moment of consideration, ‘And you have to face whatever it throws in your way. Fight it. Embrace it. Whichever. But you can’t escape it, can’t run from it.’ Her gaze challenged Hawke to an open duel and the other took the bait without the shadow of a doubt.

‘I won’t run away, Merrill,’ he said, and the girl leveled him with such an expectant stare, it made Anders wonder whether Hawke knew what he signed up for. In the end she must’ve found what she’d been searching in his eyes and accepted his answer with a small smile.

‘At least you two are sorting your shit out. That’s uplifting, really.’

‘Merrill is right, Anders. Fenris will come back once he got it all out of his system. And he will be terribly sorry. If not _, I_ will make him terribly sorry.’

‘Hawke. You’re not helping,’ she hissed and Anders felt grateful for their mere presence even though the pain in his chest didn’t lessen one bit.

They stopped right in front of his clinic, when Merrill finally let go of his hand. Hawke started to rummage in one of his pockets and produced something out of it that shone like old silver in the dim light of Darktown.

‘Remember that awful day in the ruins when I gifted Fenris his oh-so-cheesy amulet? The one with the wolves howling at the moon?’ He let the item drop into his hand, closing his finger over it immediately. ‘Well, I’ve got you something equally cheesy.’

Curiosity got the better of him and Anders opened his palm to find an amulet that let his breath stuck in his throat with a choked gasp.

‘Are you planning on getting me hanged?!’ Anders smothered his outburst, lowering his voice to an insistent whisper. ‘That’s a charm of the church of Tevinter!’

‘Yes, and I thought it would be perfect for you. It is to remind you that there are free mages in the world.’ Hawke’s hand clasped his shoulder. ‘Your magic is nothing to be sorry for, Anders. Remember that. Always.’

He didn’t know how he achieved it, but Hawke made him feel cherished, appreciated, by gifting him jewelry that was damned and cursed in the better half of Thedas.

‘You…you are incredible. Insufferable. I hope you’re aware of that,’ he deadpanned. Merrill nodded with her arms crossed in front of her chest, murmuring something to herself that sounded suspiciously like ‘he absolutely is’.

‘It came to my notice, yes.’ His boasting smile was infectious, addressing both of them.

‘I will wear it hidden. Thank you, Hawke.’

‘Take care of you.’ The worry in the rogue’s eyes was still evident, yet he turned and waved his goodbye.

Merrill hesitated at the top of the stairs for a moment. ‘If you need something, come to me. I’ll do what I can.’

He didn’t have the energy for words, so Anders nodded with tears barely held back.

With that said and done, they parted ways and he slipped into the dark clinic, heading straight for his quarters. In the silence of the room, he inspected his gift and donned it. It settled cool against his chest as if it belonged nowhere else. He decided that it must be the best thing this horrible day had brought along. Eyeing the loaf of bread sitting on the table since morning, he considered eating something yet his stomach protested upon the sight alone.

His limbs were heavy as lead when he peeled out of his coat and got rid of his boots and socks. It was only early evening, but the day’s events weighed heavy on him. Trying not to mull over Fenris, but failing miserably, he sunk into his armchair.

He’d done nothing wrong, hadn’t he? He wasn’t in the wrong place, didn’t say any outrageous things. Yet his mere existence proved to be too much for Fenris. Dragging a hand across his face, he fought to swallow the tears that threated to well up for the longest time, only to let them fall free the moment he noticed that holding them back would only hurt him further.

He was the wrong person for Fenris, it all narrowed down to that, and, Maker, that realization hurt more than any torture ever could.

Justice stirred to comfort him, but he shut him off to the most distant realms of his consciousness. No, he wanted, needed to be alone, to wallow in pain on his own.

A full stop. That’s what it was. No wrong turn on the road as it had been before or a dead end: They’d come to a halt in the middle of their street.

‘Maybe it’s not our road anymore. Maybe it has never been.’

He had to voice these thoughts aloud. They were poisoning his mind if he kept them silent for any longer.

Huddling into his worn blanket, he was able to trace Fenris’ scent on it, burying his face into it, searching for an embrace and finding none. He dozed off into dreamless sleep not long after.

 

A tapping to his chamber door let him jerk awake. The moon was up high already, flooding his room with silvery light.

‘I keep the clinic closed, Lirene, I’m sorry,’ he mumbled still half-asleep only to realize it had to be close to morning and Lirene wouldn’t be around at that time.

His head snapped around when the door opened with a creek, and Anders jerked upon the sudden sound, grabbing his staff in defense and clumsily jumped to his feet.

‘I won’t bring harm upon you. At least, not this time.’

Fenris voice was weary, worn – and he looked like it: The splatters of the day’s battle had dried on his skin, leaving dark smears. His hair was matted with sweat and grime and his whole posture spoke of an unnamable defeat. With a slow gesture, he leant his sword against the wooden wall to underline his words. His hands opened and closed in reflex at his sides as his gaze roamed the room to finally meet Anders’.

Fenris looked haunted, and the utter void that stared back at him took him off guard. Anders wanted to be mad at him, wanted to rant and rave, but all his pent up anger vanished upon seeing his lover devastated like that.

‘You…you look horrible, mage.’

Anders wasn’t able to suppress the snort despite the circumstances.

‘Look who’s talking. You resemble a living corpse more than a living elf.’

Evading his eyes, Fenris stepped from one foot to the other – a gesture Anders knew well, one that mirrored deep uneasiness.

‘I felt like one. I acted like one.’

The second half of the remark was barely audible, but Anders had heard and decided to wait for further explanations even if a gush of questions welled up in him, yearning to break free. He held them back. Instead he put his staff back down, the other’s eyes following each of his movements.

Fenris voice was small, wavering when he finally mustered the courage, to speak up again. ‘I wasn’t myself. I…I still don’t know what possessed me to do the things I did, to say the things I said…but I’m deeply sorry.  There is this deep-rooted anger in me _they’d_ planted in me so long ago. I allowed it to take root and it breaks free over and over again despite my best efforts. When I faced Hadriana, there was nothing, but this burning fury that took hold of my very self.’

He clearly had worked himself up as tremors began to travel down his shoulders and he channeled this energy by starting to pace the room in long strides.

‘I tried to rein it in, Maker, I tried, I tried so hard and failed to horribly.’

It struck Anders that Fenris sounded an awful lot like himself: They both had their demons, both real and proverbial, to rule in and didn’t always manage to handle them the way they should.

‘I know,’ Anders cawed, his voice rough from tears and sleep. ‘I know how hard this is.’

‘I’ve hurt you. _Again_. That’s the worst part.’

Coming to a sudden halt in front of him, Anders was glad that the void in the elf’s eyes had disappeared. He didn’t like the raw pain that stared back at him either, but at least it was better than the blank nothingness he’d witnessed earlier.

‘I never meant for that to happen. This rage made its way through, trashing every conviction I ever had and turned against you.’ A hand still covered in armor rose to lightly cup the side of his face, and Anders shivered upon the gentle gesture.

‘Like that, I’m a threat to you.’

The hand was withdrawn, leaving coldness and abandonment in its wake.

‘For the sake of you, I have to go.’

Here it was: The very moment in which he had to decide to let the full stop solidify or to charge into action without any certain outcomes.

Anders didn’t need to think twice.

His feet moved out of their own accord, a single step enough to tower over the other, another step enough to gather him in an embrace that spoke more than any words.

His stammered mantra of ‘don’t go, don’t go, don’t go’ left his lips unchecked and need settled low in his stomach when Fenris’ hand found its way back to cup his face as he claimed his lips in an harsh kiss that set an end to his ramblings.

‘I don’t expect you to forgive me for what I’ve said,’ he spoke against Anders’ half-opened mouth and pressed his body closer, words and action contradicting each other in the sweetest way possible.

Forgive and forget weren’t aspects that coursed through Anders’ mind at the moment. First and foremost, they’d overcome that horrible stand-still that had paralyzed them both, and second, he had a hot and bothered being snug in his arms, one he loved more than he could possibly express. He grabbed Fenris’ thigh to pull it over his hips in search for more contact and was greeted by a moan when their groins met.

‘Just don’t go,’ he pleaded, well aware that he must sound desperate. Fenris answered by pulling him down into another deep kiss.

No more full stops, Anders decided as his mind began to slowly shut off and made room for blank desire and a lust that let reality fray at its edges.

Yes.

No more full stops; they were about to head off on a road without direction.

 

 


	20. learning to kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ladies and Gentlemen, I proudly present:
> 
> PURE AND UTTER FILTH. 
> 
> LIke honestly, this is the smuttiest smut I've ever written. I'm kinda proud of myself.

This wasn’t turning out as planned.

Not at all.

Fenris had mulled over his sincere apology to Anders for hours, weighing every word, every gesture, contemplating his course of action after the disaster in the slaver caves once his rage had vanished to reveal the ashes that once had been Anders’ trust in him. He’d hurt his lover, hurt him emotionally in his fit of fury, and he wracked his brain to come up with a decent way to express his regrets. He even pondered getting him flowers but aborted that plan due to the advanced hour.

Tumbling headfirst into a make-out session was not what he had mapped out before he entered the mage’s realm, but Anders had surprised and overwhelmed him with his desperate passion. Maybe he’d triggered this response with his statement to leave in order to spare the mage further pain, but it didn’t change the more than obvious fact that he welcomed the other’s enthusiasm with pretty much the same vigor.

Right now, he kissed Anders back with an intensity that sucked all air from his lungs and his hand wandered to his lover’s shoulder, clawing into the threadbare tunic for support until his gauntlets shredded the fabric to ragged slices that hung off the mage’s upper arm.

Why did human males have to be so huge? And he’d gotten himself an exceptionally tall and lanky specimen on top of that. His toes already started to ache, so he buried his hand into Anders’ hair to tug him down, well aware that the other loved to be manhandled like that.

All thoughts of leaving had long fled his mind to make room for the very feeling that burned hot and heavy in the pit of his stomach, radiating outwards, calling for the other in pulsing waves.

‘Is this what you want?’ he asked, barely able to form the words, the question breathless with want and desire. ‘Is it? Tell me.’ He had to know, know without a doubt. He wasn’t to make the same mistake again: He needed his consent, had to ask unabashedly for his open approval of whatever was going to happen between them. In hindsight, he wondered why they’d held back with sex until now, when even their earliest confrontations had been so full of thinly veiled yearning.

The mage’s answer was immediate. ‘Maker, yes. Yes, please.’ The friction between them reached new heights when Anders rutted against him without an ounce of shame, creating a rhythm Fenris couldn’t help but dance along. The fact that his leg remained firmly anchored over Anders’ hips did wonders to their spiking arousal. He was growing hard fast. At least he wasn’t the only one – if the solid length pressing against the hollow of his pelvis was any indication.

‘I want all of you, hear me? All of you,’ Anders babbled on, voice hoarse as his nails scratched over the thick leather of his back’s armor. In the cool light of the moon, his lover’s eyes were black pearls that seemed to open gates to worlds unknown and Fenris found the confirmation he was searching for more in those dark depths than in the words directed at him.  

‘I’m going to take you.’

The sentence left his lips unchecked and if he would’ve had half a brain or a tidbit of decency, he ought to be ashamed to have uttered such an obscenity, yet in this very moment it felt proper and natural to voice such a thing as a matter of fact.

A shudder ran through the body that clung to his in a wordless echo, surrendering without further ado and Fenris took the hint to proceed.

Twisting them both, the mage’s back hit the wall with a thud and this time it was Fenris who cornered him with a deep kiss. He dimly remembered that kissing still wasn’t his forte and even Isabela had chided him for his lack of finesse, but he hoped that the blank need would make up for whatever skill he was missing. Anders didn’t seem to complain though.

His hand found its way between the other’s legs, palming the hardness that laid there heavy and ripe.

A sudden flinch let him jerk back.

‘Your gauntlets,’ Anders said with hitching breath, shoulders tense.

Damn, right. How had he forgotten the one thing that explained so much when it came to Anders: _Templars_. Or more precisely: What they’d done to him.

Shucking out of his armor without grace, his mumbled ‘sorry’s ran dry when a soft finger was pressed to his lips.

‘Not your fault.’

Anders’ smile reinstalled his confidence and his libido at the same time. The mage plucked at the clasps of his tunic, parting the fabric to let his fingers roam over the expanse of his chest. A flick to one nipple made Fenris growl.

‘Well…where did we stop…?’ Anders asked as he took Fenris’ hand to settle it right over his own crotch, arching his hips into it to solidify his intentions.

The laugh bubbling up from Fenris’ throat was playful and honest. ‘Insolent creature.’

‘Says the man who talked big about taking me a few moments ago.’

‘Oh, shut up, will you.’

‘No way in hell.’

Screw his lack in kissing skills: He would snog the snark right out of this infuriating being.

The kiss was harsh and demanding, perfect in its very own way and Fenris vowed to himself that he would learn how to properly kiss here and now. There was probably too much tongue involved, their teeth clanking more than once, all more a bite than a soft kiss, but he was on his way to do better.

Anders’ hand cupped his jawline and throat, redirecting the kiss’ angle to a more favorable one, sighing into their shared space.

‘You are going to eat me alive, aren’t you?’

A nib to his lower lip had to serve as an obvious answer when words failed Fenris’ deserted mind. His fingers unlaced the mage’s pants in clumsy urgency only to proceed with care once he took hold of the firm flesh, stroking along from base to tip in one fluent motion. The moan that greeted him spurred him on and he increased both pressure and speed.

‘Maker, yes, like this, that’s more than good…I ahhh…’

Fenris began to ask himself whether he did something wrong if Anders was still able to form words, but on the other hand, he wasn’t even slightly surprised that his lover stayed true to his mouthy self even during sexual intercourse – though he had to admit that his manly pride took quite a blow nonetheless, so he felt inclined to step up the ante a bit.

‘Eating you alive you say? Maybe that’s not such a bad suggestion.’

Sinking to his knees, he licked a long stripe up the length that quivered under his attention. He kept a his left grounded at the root, directing Anders’ nice cock to a more pleasing position before he engulfed him with lips stretched wide. At least that move let the other’s rambling find an untimely end as he was reduced to moans while his hands searched for support on the wall behind him.

It had been quite a while since Fenris last gave head, but he receded back to old habits at a speed that should’ve troubled him, yet he unveiled sounds of pleasure coming from above told him unmistakably that he must do something damn right.

Lapping the crown, he gathered the first drops of precome on his tongue before he licked his way back down to the root and up again. His right was working the shaft in rotating tugs as he lavished the glans with playful licks. He knew he was teasing his partner in the worst way possible and Anders’ incoherent mewling confirmed that. In the end, Fenris showed mercy and welcomed him back down his throat in one swift move. He felt him twitch as he opened up further, swallowing until there was no room for any more of him.

Maybe his lousy kissing performance could be overplayed by his wicked tongue and mouth on a hard cock.

_Danarius had always praised you for it._

The thought stormed through his mind like a gust of icy rain, chilling him to the bone. His former Master had enjoyed him on his knees so much, serving him like this. Back then, his mouth was good enough for this act, but for little else.

_That’s why you can suck a man to completion in record time, but ultimately fail at kissing._

The nasty voice in the back of his mind snapped at him, but its words were so true they hurt: A thousand pinpricks to an open wound.

‘Hey...hey, what’s wrong? Fenris?’

Anders’ hand cupped his jaw, the thumb tracing patterns along his cheekbone, raising his head to level him with a worried gaze. Only then did Fenris notice that he’d sat there frozen in time. For the fraction of a second, he looked right into Danarius’ slate grey eyes, saw his false smile, heard his filthy words of praise – only to snap back to reality.

This was Anders. Anders with his soft edges, lousy jokes and a mouth that would never shut up.

He staggered back to his feet, clumsy and gawkish.

‘I’m a lousy kisser, am I not?’ The question hovered in the space between them like a ghost that had no right to be in this realm.

Anders watched him in rising concern, but before he was even able to retort something, Fenris leant forwards to claim his lips in a kiss that tasted bitter and sweet all in one, shutting him up effectively. They moved along languidly, prolonging each swift gesture, each break for air, before they started anew, spinning in an endless circle of their own.

_That’s it. That’s how one kisses._

For once, the nasty voice had lost its bite, sounding content and strangely happy, and with that feeling of ease, Fenris lust returned tenfold.

He was back at stroking Anders’ cock with urgency, enjoying how the other moaned into his half-opened mouth.

‘More, Fen, I…more.’ His lover’s words had long lost any meaning and he prided himself to have brought him there. Anders’ hand came to rest upon his and he stilled any movements. The faint glow of magic made him flinch in surprise, but he was steadied by a hand upon his own.

‘Works better like this.’

For a moment, he stared at his lover in complete lack of understanding, before he noticed that something slick and warm had appeared between their palms that made its way onto the solid length beneath, easing his grip.

Oh. Well, that was awfully…practical.

As if the other had heard his thoughts, his smile grew wide and dirty. ‘Comes in handy. One of the finest spells I’ve ever learnt.’

One fine day this mage would be the end of him.

Gulping down whatever witty comment had been sitting on the tip of his tongue, Fenris decided to give the mage a taste of his very own medicine: He worked his cock in in a tight hold, cupping and twirling his balls as counterpoint to his, admittedly slick, strokes. Anders moaned without restraints by now, holding to him as if his life would depend on it. His own erection sat straining in his still laced-up breeches and he cursed himself for not having had the foresight to get rid of this last remaining piece of clothing before.

Again, Anders seemed to have picked up his train of thought as he turned around to face the wall and pressed his backside against Fenris’ cock.

‘Like this.’

Frankly spoken, there was nothing else left to be said, two words were enough to unravel him completely, and even if Andraste herself would materialize right now in all of her otherworldly glory: Fenris was past the point to hold back. He dragged the mage’s pants over his taut ass with too much haste, before he grabbed his hips to bring him flush to his aching groin. His hand was back on Anders cock in an instant, holding him tight at the base.

‘’m going to fuck you like this. Up against your wall, ass high up in the air. Spread out so nicely for me. That what you want?’

He was rather sure that any further questions had to be in vain, yet he made this fatal mistake to take the other’s approval for granted once - he won’t do it again.

An incoherent groan answered him, but Anders kept on pushing back against his erection. No need for further explanations then.

What startled him again though was Anders’ hand that reached back to settle above his cleft. The moment the fair glow of magic reappeared, Fenris flushed upon the open erotic display of the other preparing himself to be ready for the taking. He watched in trance as a lean finger disappeared into the oiled hole only to be accompanied by another after a few, long moments. Spreading his lover’s cheeks with both hands for better access, Fenris wasn’t able to tear his eyes away from the intimate display of his lover stretching himself out for him.

‘Maker. You look incredible like this.’

A half-choked groan was his only answer. When a third finger finally joined its companions, Fenris was more than ready to come here and now, but he reined the urge in by sheer willpower. With regrets, he let go of Anders’ ass cheeks in order to undo his pants with a few harsh tugs. Slicking up his cock felt heavenly, but his eyes were still following the scene right in front of him: Anders arched into his own hand with barely controlled bucks while he clung to the rough wall with the other.

Fenris’ hand moved out of its own accord, settling over the fingers that spread his lover’s hole so nicely. He felt them pull and press, and with a frim tug to the wrist he pulled them out completely. Feeling the soft rim with his fingertips only added to the growing need to be _inside_. A gentle probing to the slick heat drew a half-choked sigh from Anders.

‘’m ready. More than ready,’ he stammered and as if to underscore his words, he bowed his body to let it arch back, presenting himself like a twenty-silvers-whore.

Gripping his hips and shoulder, Fenris sank into him in one, slow thrust that had him trembling in the end. The urge to pick up speed and go for a faster, harder pace was overwhelming, but the clenching body around his told him unmistakably that he had to grant his lover a moment to adjust. When the tension receded gradually, he set a steady rhythm without haste and pressure, savoring the tightness that engulfed him, and Anders moved along with him to meet his thrusts in open welcome.

Watching his cock disappear into his lover’s hole was a sight that would fuel many, many sleepless nights to come, Fenris was sure of that.

‘I’m not made of glass, you know…’ Anders plucked him out of his erotic musings.

‘Up for a nice pounding?’ That question had sounded more lascivious and self-assured in the silence of his mind, but Anders took the bait, gazing at him from over the top of his shoulder with a smile that could only be described as lewd.

Fenris’ hand found its way into the small ponytail that had already came half undone, tugging Anders’ head back as he installed a new pace that whacked through the body below him in forceful waves. The mage was skidding further down the wall, clawing at every indent he could find as he got what he’d asked for.

‘That’s what you wanted? Being fucked hard from behind? Like a bitch in heat?’ Fenris didn’t notice that he had a streak for dirty talk before, but that new discovery glared back at him in all of its obviousness.

A grunt, followed by a tortured ‘yes’ were enough of an answer to spur Fenris on further. His thrusts grew harsh and only the firm grip to his hair held Anders up by now.

‘You can come like this, can’t you?’

Buried to the hilt, Fenris stilled completely to let the meaning sink in. Anders clenched around him and pushed back to get him to move again, but his hold to his tuft of hair only intensified to bring his question along. ‘Tell me you can come from being taken like this.’

A moaned sigh escaped Anders’ lips, then he swallowed dry. ‘Keep talking like that and I will,’ he finally admitted, almost inaudible.

Funny how fast the tables were turned: Anders fell uncharacteristically silent, while he talked himself – and soon to come, his lover - into an ecstatic high. Before he was able to follow this thought any further, Fenris picked up his pace again, pounding into the pliant body beneath. Dimly he wondered when the last time had been since Anders was bedded by another man. The mage was far from innocent but the way his body only slowly adjusted to penetration indicated that it must’ve been quite some time.

‘You’re perfect like this. So good…’ And with a particular hard thrust: ’so open. All ready to be fucked. It had been quite a while, hadn’t it?’

‘Too long…’

‘That’s why you’re spreading your legs so nicely for me.’

Anders stance widened further upon those words and Fenris felt the first tendrils of his own orgasm settle low in his groin. His rhythm began to falter, yet he clung to the overheated body that met his pace in abandon.

‘Do you feel me there? Deep inside of you?’

‘Ahhh…I…nhnn…’

‘Spreading you.’

His words almost got lost over the sound of flesh hitting flesh, but together with their moans it mingled to form a song that reverberated to the very last cell of his self. A brief touch to Anders’ cock let the other jerk in his hold.

‘Owning you.’

A bone-deep tremble took hold of his lover as he spilled his seed to the dusty ground. His scream of pleasure ripped from his throat, bouncing through the small room. The passage surrounding Fenris’ cock convulsed as Anders was awash in ecstasy. A series of deep, long thrusts prolonged the other’s orgasm, feeding, fueling his own need to meet completion. He was almost there, could feel the pressure built up in every nerve ending, his cock ready to burst, only a few last thrusts and he would be there. His breath hitched with words that threatened to spill free, words that nothing in common with the dirty talk he just performed: they tasted like ‘I love you’ on his tongue, but he swallowed them down. Instead, his body tightened up like a bow string.

Yearning for release.

And Fenris let go.

 


	21. Maferath

Anders was startled awake by the utter silence of his mind. Granted, Justice still lingered at the edges of his consciousness, but other than that, he felt like _himself_ again for the first time in ages. His body laid heavy and sated even if the dull throb in his lower regions indicated that he might’ve overdone it a bit in his, no, _their_ , frenzy. But, Maker, if that hadn’t been the best sex of his life – and he had bedded quite a few different kinds of people to know what he was talking about.

None of them were able to set fire to his very being the way Fenris had, both physically and emotionally, not even Karl.

A lazy smile pulled at his lips as he rolled over to his side, searching for his lover’s warmth to find the spot vacated, cold. Rising up on his elbows, he searched the room to find Fenris standing next to the window, already donned in full battle regalia, great sword strapped to his broad back.

The rays of the early morning sun engulfed him in a pastel light that made him resemble a marble sculpture: Ethereal and timeless. Even Andraste holding her scale of fire couldn’t be possibly more otherworldly than his lover right now.

Fenris seemed to be completely lost in thought, eyeing something he was holding in his open palm. Only then did Anders notice the strain in his composure and the small tremors that shook him. If that wouldn’t have been enough to rouse him in an instant, it was Fenris’ voice that finally addressed him, laced by pain and doubt.

‘Those are your true colors, aren’t they?  This is the token of what you really are.’

All traces of sleep were swept away as Anders staggered to his feet, dread settling low in his stomach like a deadweight that pulled him down.

‘What are you talking about? I…I don’t get it…I…’

Something dropped from Fenris’ outstretched hand to spin on its axis on a long chain that glittered in the morning light.

Anders didn’t need a closer look to identify the item. Panic gripped him from deep within as his hand splayed over his sternum in a vain search for his amulet. Of course, Fenris was bound to see the jewelry in a completely different light than he did. To him, it held nothing but oppression and capriciousness, was a clear sign that mages should rule above all beings. How had he been so shortsighted to forget about the obvious disdain this charm had to evoke in him?

‘This…this isn’t what it looks like…I can…I can explain…it’s different…it’s…’ His words tasted fake and false on his own tongue and Fenris’ gaze - filled up to the brim with hurt and rage- only underscored that feeling. His tongue refused to work; all the explanations that coursed through his mind were blocked by the fear that paralyzed him.

Anders was almost grateful when the elf turned his back on him to face the window again.

‘Last night I remembered. Flashbacks of a life I’ve forgotten. It…it came back in waves. Overwhelming me with an intensity that left me speechless,’ he said, the simmering anger still noticeable in each syllable. ‘Being so close to you made me see a part of myself that got ripped from me forcefully. I wondered why it was the closeness to you that triggered all of it, but when I noticed _this_ , it all made sense. A magister’s deed lured out by another one of the very same kind. A crow amongst a flock of crows.’

Anders wanted to scream, wanted to rant that, no, he was far from being a magister, he had never meant to hurt him like that, but the charm of the church of Tevinter blinked idly at him, still dangling off of Fenris’ fist.

‘You’ve played your cards well. I have to applaud you on that at least. I let myself be fooled, charmed by your charade,’ the other continued and Anders was doomed to listen, stunned to silence by the weight that continued to drag him down. The waters were already closing in above his head, draining him, drowning him.

‘Heh, it’s kind of funny how I let myself be fooled like that.’ Fenris’ laugh was devoid of mirth, a petrified thing that was unable to hold and sustain any life. ‘Last night, I had this tiny glimpse at happiness, but, as I said before: I see your true colors shining through now.’

Anders’ sight began to waver and wane, the world already blurring at its edges. The worst thing was the cold that seeped in drop by drop, rendering him immobile. Fenris’ eyes had turned charcoal-grey in his anger, and Anders’ beloved green beyond that usually got mirrored in its depths was nothing but a memory without substance, a far cry of something once treasured and loved.

For the first time in his life, Anders ceased to struggle.

He gave in to the pull and let himself sink to the bottom of the ocean where he came to a rest, heavy as lead. The immobility held a disfigured sort of peace that lured him in and smothered the panic that still wanted to spur him into action.

‘You’ve deceived me, mage.’

Those were the last words Anders heard and they let tears well up in his eyes even though the cold already ate at his soul. In the end, nothing of it was of any consequence, wasn’t it?

A surge of energy gripped him from the deepest corner of his conscious self, and Justice rushed to the forefront of his mind, seething with righteous anger, the smoke of the Fade wafting all around him in a black halo.

_He has never done anything to hurt you, elf! Quite on the contrary! He tried to shield you and get you out of harm’s way! This is how you are repaying him?_

Justice’s deep voice reverberated through the room, and Anders was dimly aware that Fenris flinched upon the sudden change, before he shifted into battle stance, sword at the ready.

‘Stand back, demon, or else I will _end_ you.’

Their promise from what seemed like eons ago hung in the air as a self-fulfilling prophecy, and Anders almost felt the long blade at his throat even though the other merely threatened him. _Them_.

With a flare of blueish-white, the small room was illuminated by Justice’s Fade light and Fenris stepped back out of instinct, raising his sword higher in defense. The spirit’s voice bounced off the walls, doubling over in rising crescendo.

 _He loves you so much, but you cause nothing but pain to him! With your endless rage, your foolish pride! It’s you who had turned into a demon!  Go! This is no place for you. You are no longer welcome here_.

Lightning fizzled on their skin as magic pooled all around them, threatening to overflow. In the backlight of the window, Fenris no longer resembled Andraste in all of her holy beauty, but took the shape of Maferath, bemoaning his own betrayal, as a myriad of emotions flickered across Fenris’ fine features. In the end, he lowered his weapon and spun on his heel to flee the room without having uttered another word.

Anders was lying on the bottom of his ocean, heavy and motionless, with all the burdens of the world weighing down on him. He was reduced to be a mere spectator of all the things that unfurled in the outside world and he watched them in mute horror. He trusted Justice to take care of him, of both of them, but a fleeting thought took hold in his mind nonetheless: It might’ve been better if Fenris ended him with one, neat strike of his sword in this very moment, like he’d promised back then.

_Don’t wish for death, my friend, it won’t come easy. We have still a long way to go. And the elf won’t stop us any longer._

Anders felt those words hit home with a blinding truth that sang in Justice’s voice.

But it didn’t lessen the pain.

Justice fell silent after that. His presence hovered right next to him, accompanying him in the dark ocean that held him down. He watched the sun rise as the morning turned to noon and noon became evening. Someone came knocking at the door, but the noise was dimmed by the waves above him, so the knocking ceased after some time without making a difference. The evening had already morphed into a cloudy night, not a star in sight, when Anders finally was able to take a tentative breath again. The world all around him regained its substance bit by bit as the waters receded to leave him shivering in the cold air. He became aware that he was only wearing his torn tunic, so he gathered his worn plaid all around him like a cocoon.

Then the knocking returned, more insistent this time, a sharp hammering against the splintering wood.

‘Anders? Are you up? It’s me, Sketch! I need your help, there’s something going on in the circle!’

Sketch. His contact in the mage underground. Reality came crushing into his numbed mind like a sledge hammer, and he stumbled to his feet pulling the blanket around him.

‘Coming!’ His voice was rough, barely recognizable.

With the opened door entered Sketch and a gust of fresh air, and, suddenly, Anders noticed how much his room reeked of staleness and sex.

His friend’s eyes skimmed over his appearance briefly, before he put on a worried frown. ‘Rough night, eh?’

Anders could only muster enough energy to nod curtly, and was glad that Sketch didn’t poke any further.

‘I’m sorry, I bring bad news. Double bad news to be precise,’ he said as he leant against Anders’ desk, eyeing the papers strewn across it. ’The Templars seem to have discovered one of our transit tunnels. I have no word of Dena and the others and I fear the worst. They were to smuggle a girl out, but our contact at the docks had to leave in order to keep his cover when they didn’t shown up in due time.’

Anders listened closely as he picked his discarded clothes off the floor and slipped into them, feeling Sketch’s eyes on him. He wished for a bath to wash off Fenris’ scent that still lingered on his skin, but he doubted that there would be time enough for it. Absentmindedly, he worried the torn hem of his tunic. There was nothing to be done about it at the moment.

‘You sound as if this isn’t the worst of your news,’ Anders said as he fastened his boots.

Sketch ran a hand through his hair. ‘You’re guessed right: it isn’t. There are rumors, Anders, rumors that there are plans to make every mage in the circle tranquil. Let this sink in: _every_ mage. Out of _precaution_. They fear us that much.’

Anders head snapped up as he processed the information, utterly speechless for a moment.

‘That’s lunacy!’

‘Of course it is! But you know well that there are radical forces amongst the Templars that would support a plan like that in a heartbeat! Our contacts in the circle are keeping their eyes and ears open for more information. For now, we need to find Dena and her refugee. She might know more. If she’s still alive, Maker, help her.’

Sketch was already through the door when Anders picked up his staff to strap him onto his back in one fluent move.

His eyes wandered through his room as if he was seeing it for the first time: it felt foreign, distant, yet it was laden with so many memories that he almost choked on them. There were scratch marks on the wall where he had clung to it when Fenris had fucked him from behind. The sheets on his bed lay in a twisted heap, and, belatedly, Anders thought that he had no memory of Fenris lying next to him.  He saw him standing at the window again. Beautiful in the pastel light of a beginning day. Then angry and hurt, with his sword as his last resort, as always, the cursed charm still dangling off his wrist. Had he betrayed him? Or was he the one who was betrayed? It felt as if neither of them were supposed to be Andraste, but they both held an eerily resemblance to Maferath.

It was Anders’ spirit that directed his gaze to his desk. Upon the worn surface sat what awaited finishing for quite some time now: his manifesto was his first step to make a change for the mages. He had to reach the people in all of Thedas, and make them see the mages plight. The feather was mightier than the sword after all.

_This is our mission. Don’t let yourself ever be distracted from it again, my friend._

Anders nodded to the silent room, and closed the door with a finality that seemed to end an epoch of his life in one move. Then he turned to follow Sketch into the bowls of Darktown to find answers to questions he detested from the bottom of his heart.

He was on his mission to bring freedom to all mages.

And Fenris was nothing but a marginal note to that, even if his heart continued to scream otherwise.

In his mind, Justice screamed louder.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've read a metric ton of fanfic, but not once have I ever encountered the impact the charm of the church of Tevinter must have on a Fenders relationship! Therefore, this chapter is highly selfindulgened because I FUCKING WANTED TO WRITE ABOUT IT, OKAY?! 
> 
> I'm not even sorry.


	22. pride demon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter was very emotionally taxing for me. I hope it turned out okay.

There wasn’t a single leaf left. The tiny trunk raised its two frail branches to the sky, naked and barren. The rational part in Fenris told him it _had_ to be like that because it was winter, but the insistent voice in the back of his mind chided him in a cutting tone that disregarded all reason. He had failed. Everything he touched was bound to whither and decay, and worse than anything else: he would never be able to love. In the end, Danarius knew him better than he knew himself. That fact alone hurt like a red-burning iron pressed to bare skin.

Picking up the plant, the urge to smash it against the nearest wall grew steadily. He was ready to hurl the pot with all of his might, when he heard a faint chuckle that made him freeze in mid-motion. He stared at the sapling in a mix of confusion and dread.

_That’s how you solve your problems, isn’t it? You allow your rage to lead your hand and your pride to cloud your mind. How unfortunate._

Fenris gulped around the constriction in his throat. Something tasted bitter on his tongue. Hadn’t Justice accused him of the very same thing? Sinking to his knees, he placed the plant in front of him with shaking hands as utter defeat crawled through his veins, rendering him immobile.

‘What are you? Why are you haunting me like that?’ His voice sounded alien.

_I’m something ancient. And I don’t haunt you. You do that to yourself. I’m here because you’ve chosen me. The Bright One might’ve picked me up, but it had been you who had taken me in._

Instinctively, Fenris knew who it was referring to: there was only one person who shone in all of the colors of the sun, and his stomach cramped in phantom pain at the mere thought of him.

‘…I’ve decided to grow a plant to prove that I’m able to care for something. To prove my master wrong. I…I wanted to be able to love…to be worthy of love. I’ve failed,’ he mumbled, the admission a bitter truth that dripped from his lips like poison.

The chuckle rang in the air again.

_No, you are mistaken. You love and are loved. You have proven yourself worthy of both, but your demons let you go astray. Hunt them down and defeat them and you will be yourself again._

The horrible taste in his mouth lingered and Fenris tried in vain to swallow it down. ‘I’m not possessed like _he_ is.’

_Yes and no. You are neither and both._

Something in Fenris wanted to scream. It tore at his guts, searing hot and cold as ice at the very same time. Anger and pride. Those were the demons he housed. His voice was thin when he finally was able to muster the courage to speak up again.

‘How? How do I get rid of them?’

Instead of an answer, the plant’s laugh faded to a soft tune that hovered in the barren room like an afterthought of something important. The last thing Fenris heard were two words, barely above a whisper.

_Face them._

Silence engulfed him after that, and with it came a heaviness that sat on his shoulders like lead. He lost track of time as he crouched on the hard tile floor, idly turning the potted plant in his hands, waiting for answers that never came.

A soft hand on his cheek let him snap out of his reverie. It cupped the side of his face in a loose hold and for one, happy moment he thought that Anders had shown up to righten what went wrong so horribly between them.

Of course, reality wasn’t so forgiving.

‘I’m not in the mood, Bela.’

Her huff sounded mildly annoyed. ‘I’m not here for sex, cupcake,’ she said as she continued to caress him with feather light strokes over his cheekbone. His eyes slipped closed against his will and Fenris gave in, leaning into the touch.

‘How did you even get in here?’

‘Picked the lock, sweetie. It’s my specialty, remember?’

‘Doesn’t explain why you’re here.’

‘I was worried, okay? You holed yourself up for four days. Didn’t answer to Varric, to Hawke, so I decided to check in on you.’

‘’m fine.’

Her fingers wandered to his chin to raise his head. Fenris opened his eyes to find her staring him down with concern written plainly on her features.

 ‘Like _hell_ you are. You look like death on legs.’

‘It’s nothing,’ he said, trying to convince her and more than that, himself. She shook her head with a sigh, shoulders dropping in exasperation as she climbed back to her feet.

‘Bonehead. Why do you always have to play the tough guy? Can’t swallow your pride just once and admit that fucking _nothing_ is fine?!’

Her questions hit him like the strike of a whip and he recoiled into himself.

Turning on her heel, she left the room in a few angry strides and Fenris braced himself to hear the front door slam in its hinges. To his surprise, Isabela returned a short time later, carrying a basin of water and some utensils. She settled back in front of him, a strange sternness shining in her dark eyes.

‘Okay, Fen, time for some clean up. Hand me your baby so that it’s out of the line of fire. Or water. Whatever.’

Fenris hadn’t noticed that he still clung to the sapling with both hands. His fingers followed the command only hesitantly and it took him more strength than expected to let go of it. She took the pot and placed it upon the bench beside them where it sat as a silent spectator, observing the scene that unfurled below.

When Isabela’s fingers carded through his hair, he couldn’t help but jerk back out of instinct.

‘Easy, sweetie. This won’t hurt, I promise. Marker, you look like shit.’ Untangling his greasy tresses, she combed his hair to one side, her hands working sure and steadfast, full of care. He didn’t deserve her attention, her willingness to be there for him.

‘We’re going to pretty you up again. You’ll feel better afterwards, believe me,’ she said. ‘Now, do me a favor and lean over the basin. Yeah, good, like that.’

His tankard was used to pour water over his hair until it was soaked. The fragrance of his soap followed the circling touches across his scalp, and a sigh tried to escape him and he reined it in. Why was he trying so hard to keep up pretenses? The breakup with Anders left him uprooted and there was nothing he could do to change that. No fake smile, no harsh posturing would be enough to mask the hurt and pain that coursed through him, but his stupid pride told him to straighten up and push his friend away. Why did he hold up this act to play tough and invincible? He clearly wasn’t.

 _It’s your pride that clouds your mind._ Those where the oak’s words, weren’t they? That was one of the crucial points, wasn’t it? His pride worsened what his rage had already set off course.

Not now. Not again, he vowed to himself, grinding his teeth until his jaw hurt.

Exhaling with the long-held back sigh, he gave in and let himself be pampered.

To his surprise, Isabela kept quiet. Not a comment. Not a question. Just her fingers that were working through his hair in small movements. Sluicing out the soap, she raised his head with one soft gesture, cleaning his face with the rag, before she tugged at his tunic.

‘Off with that.’

Fenris complied without hesitation and the wet rag wandered over his body, leaving goosebumps in its wake. There was nothing erotic in her touches and a picture of a past long forgotten resurfaced: elven features that looked at him in kindness. Soft. Motherly.

His night with Anders made him remember. _Anders_ made him remember.

A sob got stuck in his throat, and Isabela halted her movement to watch him in concern.

‘I’m such an idiot,’ he murmured, admitting defeat in his purest form. ‘I felt so betrayed…so I betrayed him in return. Does that make any sense?’ He lowered his head, unable to meet her gaze.

‘You…you made a mistake? He made a mistake?’

‘Both of us. Over and over again. Only this time, I fucked up for real.’

He began to fidget with the ill-fated charm that was still wrapped around his wrist and Isabela’s hand stilled his nervous fingers in order to inspect the item.

‘Andraste on her pyre…where did you get _that_ from?’

‘Him.’

‘Cupcake, I know that this must be hard for you, but, please, enlighten me. And do so in sentences that contain more than just one word.’ She settled right next to him, her body heat grounding, engulfing him. Fenris took comfort in her closeness, and, as intimate they had been on numerous occasions, their close proximity felt more connecting than any sex they ever had. Somehow, it made it easier to talk freely.

‘I slept with him. Finally. Maker, it was all I could ever ask of. I was truly happy then and there. But…but when he fell asleep afterwards, there was _this,_ gleaming on his chest like molten silver.’ He raised his hand to let the charm dangle between them. ‘ _This_ staring right back at me. Taunting me. Mocking me. I don’t know where he got it, and why he decided to keep it, but it was real, it was there, it was everything I despised and learned to fear from the bottom of my heart. I sat awake, staring at it for hours until I wasn’t able to see anything beyond the Tevinter chantry charm and the magister who wore it.’ After his words had gushed out of him, silence stretched itself thin for a long intake of air. ‘I saw Danarius lying next to me again. I felt defiled. Abused. Anger filled me up to the brim before the sun even began to rise.’

Isabela took his hand in hers. ‘And it went downhill from there.’

‘As down as down can go, yes. I heard nothing but the brawl of rage that resonated from deep within me. I didn’t even grant him the chance to explain himself. Justice threw me out when everything escalated to a point of open violence.’

‘Fuck.’

‘This sums it up quite nicely.’

Water dripped from his hair to his shoulders, pearling down his naked chest, and for a fleeting moment, he registered the absurdity of the situation: His part-time lover washing him caringly because he’d neglected himself, whilst listening to his heartbreak-stories about another not-so-part-time-lover.

In the end, Isabela unfastened her head-scarf with deft fingers and used the fine fabric to dry his soaked hair, before she let the cloth rest upon his shoulders as a tiny blanket that faintly smelled of salt and the open sea. How very fitting for a pirate, Fenris mused. Maybe he’d done her wrong with labelling her as a part-time lover. She really was more than that. She was a friend. Not like Hawke, but a treasured gem nonetheless.

‘Maybe this thing between us was never meant to be,’ he heard himself say, and felt a shiver run down his spine. ‘I’m no good for him. I’m the completely wrong person for him. I’m bound to hurt him again and again, and I’m sick of seeing him like that.’

‘So…what are you planning to do?’

‘Stay out of his life as best as I can, so he can heal.’

Isabela just stared at him, head cocked to the side, before she heaved a sigh in exasperation. ‘That’s a lousy plan, Fen. And I tell you why: It won’t work. You want each other, and more than that, you _need_ each other. Staying out of Anders’ lane is a futile attempt to flee from a problem that just needs solving. I already told you so.’

‘I’m the problem, Bela _. I am_. I’m broken beyond repair.’

Fenris knew that there was nothing left to be said after those words went past his lips. They were final, the bitter conclusion of all that lay in shambles at his feet. He didn’t notice the tears running down his cheeks until Isabela tried to wipe them away with her thumb.

‘No, you’re not. You’ve got your shortcomings and flaws as anyone does. Don’t let that vile thought poison your mind. You are not broken beyond repair, hear me. No living creature is ever beyond the point of mending, of growing anew. Everyone has the chance to change.’ Picking the little oak from its place on the bench, she shoved it into his hands with more force than necessary. ‘Even if there might lie a long winter ahead of you: Spring will come eventually. Surely.’

The oak’s faint laughter answered as if to underscore her words, and Fenris wondered whether she might be able to hear it, too.  

‘I…I didn’t know that there’s a philosopher hidden in you, Bela.’

‘Honestly? Me neither. Guess it creeps out whenever I’m trying to give relationship advice. Me of all people.’

He had to laugh despite the circumstances, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. ‘Guess relationships aren’t our forte.’

Bela chuckled and raked a hand through her locks that cascaded over her shoulder freely. ‘Hey, at least you haven’t had your husband killed to run away with your new lover.’

‘No, that was your stunt. Mine was never trusting the person I love and turning against him at the slightest inconvenience. Over and over again.’

Her hand settled upon his. ‘You really do love him, don’t you?’

A tiny nod had to be enough of an answer for something held his throat in a chokehold again, and he had to take few calming breaths in order to regain a semblance of stability.

‘Poor cupcake. Love can be such a nasty, nasty thing.’

‘Where has your philosopher disappeared to all of a sudden,’ he joked as the lump in this throat lessened.

‘Crawled back to the dark corner where she appeared from,’ she said with a smile, genuine and warm.  ‘Prepare for lousy, and most likely, seedy pirate jokes from now on.’

Fenris felt his smile mirror hers, and all of a sudden, he was glad to have opened up and bared his soul to her. His pride had almost prevented that, too.

_You’ve faced it._

The plant’s tiny voice chirped up again.

_You’ve faced it. And won._

A small victory, indeed, but a liberating one, Fenris thought as he listened to Isabela’s admittedly lousy pirate puns.

He was sure that he had to face and beat this demon a thousand times more until it would finally admit defeat, but the first step was done.

Cradling the pot in his hands like an immeasurable treasure, Fenris decided to follow his oak’s advices more closely from now on.

 _You’ve won_ ; it spoke again, spreading balm over the heartbreak that still tore at his soul.

_You’ve faced it and won!_

 

 

 

 

 


	23. blood in my mouth

_Don’t get your hopes up, my friend. He’s only here because Hawke asked him to._

Of course.

Fenris as part of the squad that accompanied him down to the sewers of Darktown was nothing but Hawke’s strategical foresight. The elf was their best warrior after all.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

Yet Anders’ gut coiled in on itself at the mere sight of him, heightening the restlessness that had taken hold of him since their breakup. The mage underground had kept him on high alert for days and an ugly part of his soul welcomed the impending threat as a convenient way of distracting him from thinking about anything else. Being confronted with Fenris so soon ate at his already frayed nerves though. He didn’t know how to act, to react around him, so he decided to ignore him to the best of his abilities. As a result, the tension between them was almost palpable, a huge invisible specter that hovered in the air between them, unspoken and looming.

‘So, Blondie, this Tranquility solution of that Templar…how did you got to know about it? Got your own spy network running, don’t you?’

Varric’s jovialness on the topic was mildly disturbing, though Anders knew the dwarf for what he was: good-natured to a fault despite all circumstances. He even managed to joke about his own brother’s betrayal at the face of a slow and agonizing death. Sometimes Anders wondered if that was Varric’s constant modus vivendi. He envied him for that trait of character.

‘Kinda. Though mine could never rival yours,’ he answered. ‘My abilities as a rogue are rather limited, but I picked up a few things from you, too.’

‘Such as?’

‘Never naming my informants. Keeping myself out of sight. Attacking from the distance.’

‘That’s why we are wading through the sewers and old smuggler tunnels on the hunt for any sign of that evil masterplan.’

Anders’ laugh sounded strained, but his humor seemed to have abandoned him. ‘It’s as I said: my abilities are rather limited. Underscore the ‘rather limited’ part if you must, Varric. My sources haven’t produced any new information and I’ve been in this labyrinth for days by now, finding nothing but corpses and cold trails. If there’s a grain of truth in Alrik’s plan, we have to stop him and his lot. For the sake of every mage who might suffer his arbitrariness. There’s nothing worse in the world than being made tranquil, believe me. _Nothing_. Not even death. There are things worse than death. This is one of them.’

Fenris’ eyes were on him, Anders knew, he could feel the gaze burning hot in the back of his head. He remembered one of their vicious banters from ages ago, the one about committing suicide. It ended with him shutting Fenris off with the very same line. Now, Anders waited for a rebuke, a spat, an _anything_ , only to end up emptyhanded when the elf remained mute. The realization hit him that he yearned for a tidbit of their old rivalry for it might bring back a semblance of familiarity and end this insufferable silence.

The urge to turn and face Fenris grew unbearably, and, in the end, he gave in to find the other staring at him unaffected, almost devoid of any emotion. Somehow this was worse than open disapproval, and something broke deep within him, soundless, but with cutting pain. Anders was sure he tasted blood on his tongue.

Next to Hawke, Fenris stood tense, yet as graceful as ever, being the beautiful star so far out of his reach again. Funny how time was running in circles for them. But time hadn’t left them unchanged, they had their shared history, and for that little mercy, that tiny spec of happiness, Anders was grateful, no matter the outcome.

A sad smile tugged at his lips.

The silence engulfed them for another moment, shutting out the world all around them. Then he turned on his heel, and reality snapped into focus again: he was here for a reason; he was on a hunt. No longer did he need Justice’s sermons; he heard them before his spirit was able to voice them in his mind.

_You will never be enough for him. You could bend and break and he would still expect more from you._

‘You okay, Blondie?’

Varric’s question didn’t make sense for a moment, but, of course their companions had watched the staring match and came to their own conclusions. The dwarf fell into step beside him, as Anders hurried down the tunnel.

‘No, I’m not, but it doesn’t really matter. It’s my own fault, my own shortcoming, so I have to bear the consequences,’ he said. The coppery taste still lingered in his mouth, no matter how hard he swallowed. ‘I am who I am, that’s all I will ever be. And I’m a mage.’ His laugh rang in the air, mirthless and hollow, and he would’ve taken it back if he only knew how. ‘That alone is _too much_.’

Varric opened his mouth, for sure to console him, the moment they stepped onto a small clearing, and somehow, hell broke loose, because so many things were happening at the very same time. It felt as if Anders' last words had opened a gate to a world where time overlapped: there stood a whole squad of Templars, plus the lost mage girl he had been searching for days. Filthy threats echoed off the walls and Hawke rushed to the front with a snarl, both daggers drawn already, but all Anders could see was the orchestrator of the scenario who smiled at him with a leer that crawled over his skin cold as ice.

He was back in the tower again, back in his year of silence and solitude and hands groped over his bare skin, careless and needy. He heard their laughter, so full of malice and corruption. The pain returned and he kept silent, because screams made it worse.

Blood in his mouth, there was blood in his mouth. It spilled freely over his lips the moment he began shouting, his staff raised high to accompany his words. He wasn’t able to recall what he screamed in the slightest, but he saw fear bloom in the Templar’s eyes.

Suddenly, the blood on his tongue tasted sweet as honey.

He wasn’t Anders any longer and Justice was gone, too, but this new, pure being knew exactly what it was doing as it slashed and hacked through the rows of Templars with a ferocity that belied Anders’ usual demure magical nature. This creature knew nothing about healing; nothing about helping others without expecting anything back in return. It existed on blank, basic instinct and Anders allowed it to roam free.

He took an arrow to the shoulder and something pierced through his thigh, forcing him down on his knees for a moment, but he continued to rain death upon the man in front of him with every ounce of magic he possessed. Alrik’s icy blue eyes still stared at him mockingly, but the beast in him smelled his fear, so he charged once more.

Anders had killed quite a few people in his life. He was a battle mage after all. But not once had he cut someone’s throat with the unerring accuracy with which his staff blade crushed down on Alrik’s neck right now. He felt the sharpened steel hitting bone and the wet squelch that went along with it made triumph well up in him. The body folded in on itself before it sunk to the ground with a metallic clunk: a puppeteer’s doll with its strings suddenly severed.

Anders stared at the gore at his feet and the feeling of elation soared through his veins like pure, potent lyrium. This was what victory felt like, this was winning a war.

The blood on his lips was gone. Sweet, so sweet, everything tasted like honey.

‘Stay away from me, demon!’

The girl’s yell caught him off guard, and he snapped around. She reeked of the very same fear as Alrik had and everything about her felt wrong, so very wrong.

_She’s one of them. She’s one of them. One of them!_

Twirling his staff around, the long blade glistened red in the half-light of the clearing. He heard voices calling out to him, distant, not bearing much weight. Fire pooled in his palm as he raised the weapon over her head to end it.

‘Stop it, Anders! Hear me? Stop it! She’s the one you came to save! She’s the reason you’re here!’

Fenris.

The sharp tip of a sword was pressed to the hollow of his throat, and Anders _remembered_. Remembered their promise, remembered that Fenris was his last line to keep him human.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared at the bloodstains in horror. He’d crossed the line, he’d become Vengeance. Fully. Truly.

 Letting go of his staff as if burned by his own magic, he sunk to the ground, bearing his throat to the other, waiting for the final blow as promised. A part of him thanked the Maker that it had to be Fenris who had to put him out of his misery.

The blade was shaking as the elf hesitated, his face twisted in doubt and pain. In the end, he lowered the weapon, eyes hidden behind his fringe of white hair. Staggering to his feet again, Anders stared at him in a mix of disbelief and, to his utter surprise, thankfulness. He didn’t want to die, not here, not now, not like that. Maybe a braver man would’ve accepted his fate, but Anders was a survivor by heart.

‘I…I need to get out of here,’ he mumbled.

No, he wasn’t a brave man, he was a lousy coward. His feet developed a mind of their own, and they decided that he had to run, run as fast as he could. Hawke’s voice followed him down the tunnel, but his steps were faster, carrying him on and on. It was borderline miraculous that he didn’t encounter any of the many pests that the sewers housed in his mad chase to get away. He made it to Darktown where he fled to his clinic only to collapse onto the dirty floor to weep in desperation the moment the tension of his flight lessened.  

Maker, what had he become? He was an abomination, no doubt about that.

_Anders? Why are you so upset? We did what was right, what was just._

The laugh that bubbled up morphed into a sob. Justice hadn’t noticed the change. To him, they remained the same entity, unaltered and honest.

‘We almost killed her, Justice. There’s nothing just about murdering an innocent.’

_She was corrupted, too._

‘For fuck’s sake, she was terrified of us! We were the reason she reeled back in fear! There was nothing but Vengeance in us. Fenris would’ve done right to kill us right away! Go! I want you gone! Hear me? Go!’ Anders was outright screaming in the end, clawing at the packed dirt floor until his nails broke.  Justice retreated without a further word, diminishing until he was nothing but a foreign spark that hovered in the most distant realm of his mind.

Blood was dripping onto the ground beneath him, and, belatedly, Anders felt the pain of his wounds hit home full force. He grinded his teeth, breathing through the wave of pain. Had he any right to heal himself? He was surely supposed to suffer for his deeds. But, again, he was nothing but a pathetic coward, so he gathered his magic all around him and let it wash over his aching body.

This time, his hand came up clean when he dragged it over his mouth. He wasn’t able to wash away the blood that was still tastable on his tongue though.

The same urgent restlessness from before gripped him again, forcing him into action. He couldn’t sit around and bemoan his poor fate; he would go mad over it. He had to do something, no matter what. Occupying his hands seemed to be a vital act right now. Compulsive behavior? Maybe. _Surely_.

He settled in front of his chest and rummaged through his meagre belongings. Sorting out his possessions made him feel in control over his life again. The concept sounded silly and childish, yet it helped him to calm down at least a little bit.

He heard the door open followed by the almost nonexistent tap of bare feet that only stilled when they came to a rest right behind him. He didn’t dare to turn around. His abandoned staff was placed on the ground beneath him, its blade still stained by blood. He flinched upon the sight, but continued his sorting.

‘Tell me what happened.’ Fenris’ voice held no accusation even though he would’ve had the right to do so. Anders focused on his shaking hands instead.

‘I lost control. Completely. I gave in to Vengeance.’ He had to pause for those words were lying heavy on his heart. ‘Maker, I almost killed that poor girl. If it weren’t for you to stop me, I would have for sure.’

The silence stretched on between them once more and Anders endured it like a punishment. A tentative hand on his shoulder made him jump, but, finally, he mustered the courage to face Fenris. The hand stayed, anchored him, and Anders was grateful for the small mercy.

‘So, you’re giving up,’ the elf asked. ’That’s just not like you.’

‘You…you were right from the very start: I am a monster. An abomination. How can I fight for the freedom of all mages if I’m the worst example for what that freedom might bring?’

‘Mages _are_ dangerous. That’s why all of this is so damn hard.’ The grasp to his shoulder grew firmer, straightening him up. ‘Then be the example that controlling your powers is possible.’ It felt as if Fenris searched the depth of his soul with his gaze. ‘You’re stronger than you think you are.’

Anders wanted to believe him, but couldn’t.

The hand that steadied him withdrew and Anders noticed that the cursed charm was still wrapped tightly around the other’s wrist as silent memento of all the obstacles that stood between them. Why was Fenris even helping him?

‘You don’t have to pity me.’

The elf heaved a deep sigh and shoved a crumbled letter into his hands. ‘I don’t do that. I never pitied you, not once.’ His words sounded soft and honest and this time, Anders believed him right away. His eyes flew over the lines, faster and faster, spreading hope where desperation had been only moments before.

‘That’s Alrik’s letter! They all denied him their support?! Even Meredith and Elthina? Then maybe not all is lost and in vain when even _they_ admit the faultiness of his views!’ He reread the letter again, slower this time; it took a weight off of his mind as heavy as whole Sundermount. Maybe they would listen to reason after all. He thought of his manifesto and how it could reach out to people like them.

Yes, he would write on that right now.

_Then hurry to your desk, my friend._

Justice was lured back by his euphoria and Anders welcomed him with boyish giddiness. When he looked up from the paper to smile at Fenris, he found the spot vacated, the elf long gone on silent soles.

The afternoon sun flooded the clinic with golden light even in the midst of winter and its rays caught up on something that gleamed like ancient silver right in front of him. Upon the dusty ground, the charm of the church of Tevinter was lying, left behind as a reminder that the obstacles between them were no longer as enormous as they’d been before. Anders picked it up gingerly to wrap it around his left wrist. It was to be their token from now on, no matter the distance, no matter the issues they had yet to face.

They would find a way back to each other somehow.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I woke up at 8.30 am on a sunny Sunday, sat my ass down with Müsli and espresso and wrote this chapter in one go. That's the most hardcore stunt I've pulled in AGES.


	24. life lie

Fenris had watched the city burn. Kirkwall’s downfall by the hands of the Qunari had to be expected – in fact, had long been overdue – but seeing the chaos unfurl had shocked him nonetheless. The odor of burnt flesh and ashes still hung in the air like a bad omen for more atrocities that were yet to come.

Pain shot up his left flank and the attempt to settle himself in a more favorable position only resulted in a wince and a choked off groan. The battle had taken its toll on him; he was still recovering weeks after, but being run through by a Qunari ax would tie stronger men to the sickbed. He wondered how Hawke was for the rogue took way more damage than he had, both physically and emotionally. Thinking of how his friend had to head into battle coming straight of his own mother’s funeral let Fenris’ insides twist in in compassion. Seeing Hawke so broken was one of the worst things he ever had to witness.

He drew a hand across his face as if this little gesture would be enough to shy away his train of thought. Of course it wasn’t.

A polite knock made him jerk and curse at the same time because his side was set aflame in pain again by the small, sudden movement.

‘I’m coming in! I hope you’re wearing something!’

The door creaked open and Merrill stepped in, carrying a large bundle that she dropped on the table with a huff.

‘It wasn’t my mistake that you barged in unannounced when I was changing my bandages. You should be used to a naked, male chest by now, by the way,’ Fenris couldn’t help but deadpan. Watching Merrill turning a deep shade of red was strangely satisfying even though he should feel bad for nagging the poor girl. Well, he _should_ , but he was also bored out of his mind, being confined to bed for what felt like eons.

‘I _am_ used to it, Fenris! I just prefer it to be my lover, not you.’

‘Ouch, you wound me.’

‘You are already wounded.’

‘Point taken.’

Riling her up would lead nowhere, so Fenris swallowed is petty crankiness and focused on matters at hand.

‘Talking about your lover: how’s Hawke?’

Taking a seat next to him, she folded her hands in her lap. She really had delicate fingers, Fenris noted. Long and elegant, but with underlying strength.

‘He’s recovering slowly…but…life had been hard on him. He’s not back to his former self – not that I would expect him to be after all that he’d been through.’ She worried her thumb, lost in thought. ‘It’s strange to see Hawke so silent, so introverted. It’s so unlike him.’

‘I see. He needs time to come to terms with what had happened.’

‘I…I don’t expect him to be unchanged by his mother’s fate, but Mythal be my witness, I miss his bright smile so much. I don’t know how to bring it back.’

‘That’s not your task, Merrill. You can only help him along. He has to come to terms with it on his own.’ Damn, how he hated situations like this. Comforting people clearly wasn’t his forte. He lightly put his hand on hers in an attempt of unspoken consolation. He couldn’t think of anything more to say and felt stupid for not coming up with something meaningful. Or at least _helpful_.

Maybe he didn’t need to, as Merrill smiled back at him in wordless gratitude. Withdrawing her hands, she turned to her bundle and started to rummage through it.

‘I’ve brought you dinner. Orana’s soup and some pastries!’ She placed the dishes in his lap gently, then returned with an item that almost made him drop is spoon: she was holding the small tome of enchantments that still held the key to his brandings.

‘Anders returned that to me and asked me to translate the chapter on your glyph. You know, he’s busy like crazy with so many injured by the Qunari attack.’

His finger’s hold to the spoon grew painful and he had to force himself to manage a curt nod in her direction. He’d seen Anders only once since assault. He’d been feverish back then, only registered colors and sounds, but he would recognize Anders even if he would be reduced to be nothing but a bodiless ghost that had forgotten about all and everything else. His healing let him float, rebirthed him in the best way possible. When he woke, he had been alone again.

Maker, how he missed him.

‘Come on, Fenris; eat up before the soup gets cold.’

He’d lost all appetite, but gave in and ate for eating’s sake.

Merrill took in her seat again and thumbed through the book until she found the marked page.

_This glyph is reserved for the ones that took the Dirth'ena Enasalin to heart fully. Only the well versed are capable to even produce it for it stems from their very being._

Merrill’s voice let the ancient words flow like water over a pebbled ground as she began to read aloud.

_Its nature is different from all the other powerful glyphs that are conjured on earth or air – not even the ones drawn by blood rival its potency._

‘Isn’t that awesome! It says your glyph is an Arcane Warrior technique!’

‘Yes, and more powerful than any bloodmagic,’ he snapped, falling back into an old pattern of behavior. Merrill deigned to ignore his jibe with forced patience. This was the very topic that would always stand between them, even though they’d found a more or less polite way of coexisting by now.

With a sigh, she picked up where she’d stopped reading.

_The glyph is anchored by and on the mage’s body. Like that, it is fueled directly by their mana pool and can’t be extinguished by outward spells and enchantments. Its power can be syphoned or redirected into a weapon of the mage’s choice or used directly through high-energetic mana pulses. Advanced warriors are known to have left their physical form behind and merged with the glyph completely, reaching a spirit like level. The glyph’s limitations are obvious though: A dwindling mana pool extinguishes it on the spot. If the mage is in their fade-form at that point, they’ll lose their ability to rebuild their physical appearance and face the fate of a spirit stuck in between the worlds, forever lost in the periphery of the Fade._

‘Sweet creators…that’s why only mages with an incredibly high mana level are able to perform this spell. I wouldn’t even know how to achieve a glyph like that! But, Fenris, this describes your lyrium ghost form in detail!’

‘Only that I’m no Arcane Warrior.’

‘Before you eat me alive, do me a favor and hear me out.’ Merrill seemed to brace herself with a deep intake of air. ‘Do you know for sure? To me, it doesn’t make sense to put an ancient arcane glyph on a non-mage.’

Fenris stared at her as if she’d suddenly grown another head. Then anger welled up in him before he was able to stop himself.

‘How should I know? You know well enough that I have no memory of the life before I was branded like cattle! I hope you notice the irony of this situation. A mage forced these brands on me by using raw lyrium – and most likely an immense amount of bloodmagic - all in order to create a formidable weapon! Why should it be of relevance if the body that had to undergo that ritual was able to do magic?! It’s solely the lyrium that fuels my powers!’

Merrill didn’t even flinch. She endured his fit like weathering a storm face first.

‘Fenris, you can’t stamp a magical glyph on an ordinary person with all the lyrium in the world and expect it to do the magic described. The spell has to take root on something other, something more than a body: Your very own mana source is needed for that. Only then magic can be woven. Without a doubt, your lyrium multiplies that power, but fundamentally, you have to house its mana pool.’

His hands were clawing the threadbare fabric of his cover by now and reining in his rage was harder than ever.

‘I’m no mage,’ he hissed through clenched teeth. ‘This can’t be…I’m no mage!’

Merrill remained silent, brushing invisible dust off the page that showed his marking’s pattern so delicately. ‘I know this must unsettle you, but…think about it. Let your anger vanish, then consider the thought again.’

A familiar, faint giggle let his head snap to the window. The oak had started to regrow over the past few weeks, its first budding leaf sprouted in a vibrant green.

_Let your anger vanish, then consider the thought again._

Her words were turning somersaults in his head, accompanied by the oak’s cheerful laugh. His anger rarely vanished into thin air by itself; he had to work it out of his system. Getting rid of it and reconsider such a concept was easier said than done, when your whole existence was questioned on such a fundamental level.

_Just because you don’t like the thought, doesn’t mean it holds no truth._

Fenris was no longer sure whether the oak kept whispering or Merrill had continued her musings: his head swam with words he didn’t want to hear. He wished for Anders to be by his side to calm him, to bring light into this mess of dark assumptions. But Anders wouldn’t coddle him, even if he might wish he would right now, troubled as he was. He would make him pause and face reality with a smile on his face as bright as the sun.

Maker. How he hated the thought alone. He. A mage.

But, what if…

What if Merrill’s thesis proved to be right? Was there even a way to verify its legitimacy? And if so: Did he really _want_ to know for sure? He still clung to the possibility that she might be mistaken, yet the ‘what if’ had already made room in his mind and that shadow of doubt alone was enough to unsettle him. Especially, if that thought sounded so awfully plausible. And if he was honest to himself: there had been times in battle when he’d exhausted his lyrium brands beyond anything and _still_ was able to draw power from deep within. This was his life lie, his grand delusion, wasn’t it?

But did the knowledge that he had been a mage really have an impact on who he was, what he was now? He raked a hand through his hair in frustration. His eyes wandered over the open page that seemed to stare up at him, waiting for an answer, too.

‘I…I always wanted to know what’s behind my marks in hope it would bring back a part of me that I deemed lost and gone. Now I have my answer and wish I’d never asked in the first place.’

Merrill still sat right next to him, but seemed to be far away, her gaze frozen in the distance. She visibly had to shake herself to focus on him again. ‘Yes, I know what you mean. How was the saying? Be careful what you wish for?’

Fenris just nodded. Strange, this time, his anger had disappeared on its own. His thumb caressed the edge of the page before he closed the book softly. Another chapter of his life finished, another page he won’t return to.

He felt heavy: his limbs too long, too overgrown for his small soul, his tired mind.

‘Pastry?’

Something covered in sugary frosting was shoved right under his nose.

‘Sweets won’t make this mess any better.’

‘Pro’bly ‘nt,’ Merrill said while munching on one of her own. Swallowing, she continued more clearly, ‘But they won’t make you feel worse. Give them a try, they’re delicious.’

Reluctantly, he picked one and took a bite. Merrill hadn’t promised too much, they tasted heavenly. Here he was, sitting in his bed injured, nibbling on some pastry, while his life lie was lying right in front of him and stared at him in open mockery.

This day couldn’t get any worse.

A banging to his front door startled them both and Merrill made a grab for her staff out of instinct when steps neared them fast.

‘Daisy? You here? We need a mage with us!’ Varric stormed into the room, Sebastian in tow. Something had to be gone horribly wrong if those two decided to team up on their own. Sure, they tolerated each other, but there was no love lost between them. Fenris straightened in his cot, a strange premonition settling in his gut.

‘Hey, Broody. Sorry, we have to kidnap your nurse,’ the dwarf said, already ushering Merrill towards the door.

‘What in Mythal’s name had happened that you are agitated like that,’ she asked while strapping her staff to her back again.

‘I’ll tell on the way, now, please, get those pretty legs going, we are in a hurry. Bye, elf.’

Every other time, Fenris would’ve let them pass without question. Varric had his own ‘business’ running and he dealt with both Carta and Coterie on a daily basis, but something told him that this was different.

‘What’s going on? Tell me.’ He was well aware that his tone was commanding and focused all eyes on him, but he trusted his instinct, and it told him to spur into action _now_.

‘This doesn’t concern you, Fenris. You better stay put in your bed and recover nicely,’ Sebastian said with a smile that was so forced that it looked almost twisted. If nothing else would’ve told Fenris that something was off and that certain something _had_ to involve him at all costs, it was his fake smile. He threw the covers to the side and scrambled to his feet.

Sebastian was tall for a human, towering several inches above him, but he cornered him in a few long strides nonetheless, glaring up at him in determination, even if the wound in his side screamed at him to stop moving.

‘What the _fuck_ is going on.’ He rarely used swear words, he usually didn’t have to, but right now, it was satisfying to watch his friend flinch upon the sharpness of a single word. ‘Tell me. Now.’

Stepping up right next to him, Varric heaved a deep sigh.

‘Templars. They’ve raided the clinic, elf.’

White noise. Suddenly, his head was filled to the brim with white noise. Thankfully, his hand and feet acted on their own, moving separated from his mind, as they clad him in his armor. Being faced with his life lie had been tough, but this? This was worse.

‘We wanted to keep you out of this,’ he heard Sebastian say. ‘Given your…your…history with him.’

Fenris spun on his heel, ignoring the tearing pain in his flank. ‘This is my decision to make!’

The archer had the decency to look guilty. ‘But are you sure you’re able to move? You were badly injured...’

Fenris already reached the front door, the others tagging behind.

‘We’ve got no time to discuss this,’ Varric interjected. ‘If the elf likes to have it the hard way, so be it.’

‘You didn’t really expect him to sit back and let his lover be killed or worse,’ he heard Merrill ask, but lost track of the rest of the conversation, because the ‘or worse’ kept echoing through his mind in endless loops. To Anders, there was only one thing worse than death.

Being made tranquil.

Fenris started to _run_.

 

 


	25. small victories

_They have no right to be here! This is our realm! How dare they?! HOW DARE THEY?!_

By now, it proved to be next to impossible for Anders to tell whether the angry voice that reverberated through his mind belonged to Justice or Vengeance. In the end, it didn’t really matter, did it? They both had taken hold of him to a point were any attempt of distinguishing them was completely in vain. They were one entity now, for the better or for worse.

Though giving in to his spirit’s rage right now would be nothing short of a death sentence, as Anders stared down a whole squad of Templars with an outward serenity that belied his inner turmoil.

‘I made this a sanctuary for the sick and wounded. Why do you disturb their peace?’ Strange, he confronted Hawke with almost the same words in what felt like a lifetime ago. So much had changed since then.

‘We didn’t come because of your patients, mage.’ The Templar Lieutenant was young, most likely freshly promoted after the Qunari attack had thinned the Order’s ranks considerably.

‘Oh, don’t you say? But you _should_ , Lieutenant, those are your people, your citizen to guard. It should be your responsibility to see to their wellbeing in dire times like this, shouldn’t it?’

He must’ve stroked a chord here as the man let his eyes roam over the room filled with people staring at him in suspicion or open fear.

‘The chantry will see to them once you’re in our care.’

Anders cocked his head to the side, leaning against a wooden beam in mocking nonchalance. ‘Oh, will they? Like the Chantry looked after them when the Blight forced them to come here as refugees? They surely welcomed them with all the cordial warmth worthy of Andraste herself. Or am I mistaken?’

The Templar avoided his gaze and this small victory filled Anders with hope: the boy had to gnaw at his own lie and the display of bad conscience showed him that he wasn’t so indoctrinated and fanatic as many others in command. Maybe Anders would escape the noose another time if only he played his cards well. All those nights over Wicked Grace must’ve been good for something after all.

‘Andraste herself was Fereldan, yet no one stepped up to help her people when they needed it most. Not the Chantry. Not the Viscount. And most definitely not your own, noble Order. You left them to rot in the sewers where they still are with their pains, their sicknesses, their hunger. What have you done for them that _I_ have not?’

A murmur ran through the rows behind him, underlining his accusations, backing him up. He straightened to full height and took a step forwards, leaning into the Templar’s personal space.

‘Think of the Maker’s bride on the pyre and answer my question: What have _you_ done other than sink to your knees to pray?’

The man’s, no, the _boy’s_ , Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed dry, unable to answer. Anders didn’t grant him the time to recover, needling him with more questions that aimed to weaken his resolve to see through with his orders.

‘See? That’s all you ever did. Nothing. You are nothing, but empty words. And you wonder why the Maker has forsaken us? I might not have been much of a help for the Darktown people, lousy apostate as I am, but at least I got my ass up and _did something_ with the powers the Maker gave me.’

Whispered words of approval from the clinic’s residents strengthened his backbone, gave him wings. Freedom was a grasp away, he knew for sure.

He took another step forwards, and the Lieutenant receded. Anders smiled. Another small victory.

Then the cutting edge of a sword was pressed to his pulse point and he froze, staring at the Templar who had taken up the spot his superior had vacated. The blade already nicked his skin, followed his tiniest movements. He didn’t dare to breathe.

‘Filthy apostate! You spill nothing but lies! This is how you hope to get away, don’t you? But you won’t be able to bend the Maker’s will, because he sent us here to let you face justice! If the Lieutenant isn’t able to follow orders, _I_ will!’ Ah, here it was: the fine specimen of the variety ‘fanatic Templar’ Anders had already begun to miss. Where the Lieutenant had surprised him with an active conscience and an ounce of empathy, this guy was obviously bereft of any of it. 

Blood was pooling in the dip of Anders’ collarbone. He was in dire need for a plan B.

_Let fire rain down on them. Scorch them alive!_

No.

He drew a breath through clenched teeth in order to master the spirits that screamed at him to take action.

No.

Using his magic would only result in bystanders getting caught up in the crossfire. He was a healer. He wouldn’t endanger his patients.

The murmur behind him had intensified in the meantime, rising to a choir of angered voices. Were the clinic’s residents really that riled up to start a revolt against the Templar squad on his behalf? Maker, that wasn’t what he had intended, for it would end in even more bloodshed.

An awful familiar voice cut through the room, silencing its occupants with a roared ‘what’s going on here?! Stop that at once!’

Anders rarely was of one mind with Aveline, her mindset way too conservative for his taste, but her and her guardsmen’s appearance held the possibility that she would save his sorry ass.

‘Lower that sword immediately,’ she barked, stepping right up next to them.

‘This person is a wanted criminal and a dangerous apostate,’ his aggressor snarled, pressing the blade closer for emphasis and Anders had to crane his neck to evade the attack somehow.

‘I see. That’s why he’s standing in front of you without having his staff drawn, or used magic in self-defense even though you threaten his life so heroically. If he would be such a threat as you prove to be and really wants to you dead _, you would be_.’ The last three words soared over Anders’ head and he could see the impact they had in every line of the man’s face.

‘Also: You are messing within a range of duty that’s beyond your responsibility. That’s an issue for the city guard. I will only repeat myself once: _Lower your sword_.’ There lay pure steel in her words, a promise of sanction if her orders weren’t to be followed.

Instead of being intimidated, the Templar countered with a laugh. ‘Come on, everyone knows you are friends with the new Champion of Kirkwall – and in his long shadow, creatures like _that_ are hiding. But Andraste’s light will lure them out, I will see to it, I will–‘

His sentence was cut short when something hit the side of his face with a sickening crunch. For the fraction of a second, Anders thought that Aveline had smacked him with the pommel of her sword, but when more stones were thrown, following the first, it was clear that the confrontation had taken another course.

The guard captain pulled Anders back and down, shielding him, and for the first time, he noticed the large crowd that had filled his clinic: half of Darktown seemed to be assembled. He heard Aveline scream orders that went unanswered over the roaring mass that pushed forwards.

A riot. Maker, somehow he’d started a riot.

Anders got caught up in the middle, and all his shouts to end this madness fell on deaf ears, even though he pleaded for the violence to end. Everything had gained a dynamics of its own and he could do nothing but follow, trying not to get thrown under. Someone tugged at his coat; another kicked him in the side, leaving him winded, gasping for air. He wasn’t made for close combat, but he clawed and boxed to the best of his abilities. He searched for the familiar braid of copper-red hair in the crowd all around him, but to no avail.

He didn’t saw the strike coming, only bent sideways at the very last moment, as the blade slashed into his forearm, leaving a long gash in its wake that burned like fire. He waited for the downswing of the sword, bracing for the pain to bite again, only to be pushed aside when the deflecting blade of a claymore let sparks rain down on him.

Anders stared up at his savior and the urge to cry and laugh mingled, made him gasp for air like a stranded carp in the end: Hovering above him, stood Fenris of all people, countering the blow that was originally meant for him. It was a scene right out of one of Varric’s cheesy novels: The knight in shining armor came to the rescue of the fair maiden. But he had no time to ponder the parallels between the dwarf’s shallow belletristic and his own life. He scrambled backwards, narrowly avoiding another attack by using a simple mind blast in self-defense, while Fenris turned on his axis spreading death all around him.  

‘Anders! This way! Hurry!’

If seeing Fenris had been a surprise beyond everything he deemed possible, being confronted with Sebastian filled him with a sense of bad humor, irony even. But beggars can’t be choosers. He swallowed a petty remark and followed him, more crawling than actually walking. Varric disappeared out of thin air next to him shoving him through a half collapsed entryway where they found Merrill cowered around the corner, obviously waiting for them. She unlocked the door in front of them with nervous fingers.

‘That way! Faster,’ she said, ushering them down the dark corridor. Anders couldn’t believe it: Hawke’s squad came to his rescue. The thought spread like molten sunshine through his veins.

Then a chill colder than winter’s breath ghosted down his spine, and he stopped where he stood.

‘Fenris. I won’t go without Fenris.’

It was a statement that didn’t wait for verification or opposition. To him, it was a matter of fact, unchangeable and honest. He was already turning on his heel, when he heard the voice that echoed down to the marrow of his bone.

‘Hurry on. I’m here.’

Fenris’ face was covered in sweat and grime, and the lines around his mouth spoke of a pain well-hidden, but the tentative smile on his lips reminded Anders of his own small victories from before. The whole world could slip into chaos in the blink of an eye, but as long as this being kept on smiling at him, _for_ him, he would go on. Maybe Varric was open to a new, very cheesy trope for his next novel? His life was dishing up the most abstruse scenarios that went along well with an overdose of raw emotions.  On the other hand, he would praise the Maker, if he was spared from being the next source of inspiration for the dwarf and his literary escapades.

He was a love-struck fool. That had to be enough.

The flat of a hand pressed to the small of his back pushed him onwards and its warmth provided him with energy that should’ve long left his sore body. He’d been at the edge of a nervous breakdown even before the squad of Templars had barged into his place. The Qunari attack had filled his clinic up to the brim with wounded people that kept his mana reserves at a constant low and drained him of his physical strength, too. He’d lost weight, he was well aware. The tug of war in his mind and soul didn’t turn his overall health for the better, and there were days where he asked himself what kept him going anymore.

Fenris’ hand still lingered, pushing him on along the endless hallways gently.

This was his answer, wasn’t it? For all of his ambitious cause, his fight for the freedom of all mages – he wouldn’t carry on with such a determination if there wouldn’t be a person in this world that kept him here, grounded him despite all of what stood between them.

Loving Fenris was his private victory over all and everything that wanted to crush him. He clung to that all-consuming feeling to the best of his abilities. Fenris was his green beyond, the distant nirvana that he kept on returning to over and over again. Even now, he saw the wilds stretching along the horizon, promising him freedom, peace. Fenris’ hand on him only underlined that fact. Their breakup might’ve set them apart, but it didn’t change the essence and intensity of what he still felt for the man. In that regard he was unchanged, whole.

With every step he took, another realization spread inside of him: he’d started a revolt with his defiance to give in and follow the Templars.

_They would’ve killed us! Killed us at the spot the moment they would’ve realized that it’s US not only YOU!_

Maker’s breath, yes, he knew that perfectly well. He clung to life with everything he’d got once more; only this time, he’d started a maelstrom that had pulled in innocents, brought death and destruction upon those who came to him for help.

_It had been their choice to step in for you. Remember._

‘Andraste have mercy on me,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve started a revolt.’

Merrill turned to grace him with one her soulful stares. ‘What’s done is done. You intended no harm, fought for your own life. No one will accuse you of anything.’

A dry laugh bubbled up his throat, joyless and desperate. ‘Of course they will. They will say a mage orchestrated all of it. I will have to take the blame, despite my original intention. I…I hadn’t planned on it to escalate like this!’

‘C’mon Blondie, there’s no use for dwelling on it. Let’s take one step after the other and see how things will turn out. I can’t believe that I’m saying this, but: this was bound to happen in one way or the other. It’s only sad that it had to be you of all people to ignite the spark.’

Varric was right; he knew it from the bottom of his heart. Even if he might’ve started the riot today without intending to, it happened because it _had_ to ultimately. He just proved to be the inhibitor, the spark that set flame to something that was meant to burn from the very beginning. Maybe it was him that could set things into motion where other could not. He trampled down that thought with all of his might as soon as it appeared, hurrying his steps even more.

No, this thought would lead to something more than just an upheaval in a slum or an alienage.

It was the path to revolution.

In his mind, Vengeance laughed. This time, Anders was sure it had to be him, for the cadence of his voice was off. It was a vicious sound, full of intent and foreboding. Anders grabbed the hand that pressed to his back. The interlacing fingers shied away the self-fulfilling prophecy that had draped over his mind and soul, and Fenris intensified his hold as if he’d sensed his turmoil.

They’d passed through several doors by now to which Merrill all had a matching key. It dawned on Anders where they were heading, and once they reached their destination, she led them to a small room and asked him to stay put. 

‘You’re save here. But you need to stay hidden for a while,’ she said. ‘I’ll check in on you as fast as I can.’ With that said, she disappeared.

‘What a mess. I’ll go, sorting out information about what has happened in the meantime. I’ll fill you in.’ Varric was back to business as it seemed. ‘C’mon, choir boy, your good relations to the chantry are needed for that, too. And, no, I won’t allow opposition. You’ve seen what has happened in Darktown.’ Sebastian wanted to interject, but was surprisingly effectively shoved through the door by the much smaller man. ‘Heal yourself, Blondie; you’re bleeding all over Hawke’s carpet.’

Anders took a deep breath. Yes, he was still bleeding; the front of his shirt was soaked through and droplets still dripped from the hem of his sleeve, but he felt no pain due to the adrenaline still coursing through his system. He nodded his goodbyes to both rogues and with the closing door, silence fell upon the room.

_If you wanted to, you could start a revolution._

Vengeance’s voice cut through his mind and he flinched upon its impact.

All sense of victory, no matter how small or big had fled him by now.


	26. Are you happy now?

Fenris felt lightheaded, disconnected from mind and soul. His own, rattling intakes of air were the only sound to be heard for quite some time. The urge to break the silence that stretched between them became overwhelming, but neither dared to make the first step. The stasis only deepened with every passing minute, heightening the unspoken stalemate.

In the end, Fenris’ weary body made the decision for both of them: his legs gave out and he could only watch himself sag to the ground in slow motion despite his mind screaming at him to pull himself together, but no defiance would’ve been powerful enough to rival the dizziness that had taken hold of him. He clutched his left side with an arm thrown over his midsection when the tearing pain returned after having been banned due to his adrenalin-fueled battle mode.

 ‘Let me. Let me help you.’

Anders’ voice reached him only distantly. Soft fingers were carefully untangling the hand that clawed into his side. He grunted in pain, yet his eyes snapped open to inspect the damage. A bloodstain spread over his side, down to his thighs, having seeped through the thick leather of the armor by now.

‘Your wound has reopened.’

Yes, he was well aware, but that hadn’t held him back until now.  When the first wave of healing magic flowed over his skin, he couldn’t suppress the sigh of relief as the pain subsided to a dull throb.

‘Idiot…Idiot, heal yourself first,’ he snarled, but his words were bereft of any real bite – especially if the mage continued to look at him with kind eyes.

Instead of an answer, Anders began to first unfasten his breastplate, then worked him out of the rest of his armor with a steady determination that didn’t allow a ‘no’ as a response. The tunic clung to his injury and Fenris’ choked-off cry resounded through the small room when the fabric was peeled off.

‘Shhh, I’m sorry, but this has to be. Let me have a look. All is going to be fine.’

Anders was back to his healer-self: concentrated and analytical, yet taking each step with the outmost care. Studying his features, Fenris searched for the golden sunlight that let him shine in all of his beauty, but found nothing but bone-deep tiredness and despair. He swallowed dry. He knew both of those feelings well enough by his own experience, but seeing his former lover reduced to that hurt more than the burning wound in his side.

‘You’ve lost weight,’ Fenris said and scolded himself for his lack in communication skills at the very same moment. It wasn’t that he didn’t possess empathy, but speaking his mind and soul was still as hard as ever. He wanted to pull the statement back, rephrase it and send it out again – this time, with its true intention, but the ‘ _I was worried sick about you’_ stayed stuck in his throat. Would there ever be a time when he was more than a fumbling cretin when it came to confess what his heart screamed at him? Probably not.

‘Happens, given the circumstances. It had been busy times.’ Anders was fidgeting with the bloodied tunic, before he raised his palms in order to send a second wave of healing through Fenris’ body.

Grabbing the mage’s hand, he halted his attempt and held his gaze.

‘Heal yourself first! You always give and give until one day there will be nothing left to give.  And all of us are taking and taking without a second thought. Including me.’ Fenris lowered his voice until it was barely audible, guilt-laden as he was. ‘ _Especially_ _me_. So, this time, you come first.’

Anders opened his mouth, ready for opposition, but Fenris shut him up with a forefinger pressed to his lips. The gesture alone was way too intimate given their ugly breakup, but it had to do to prepare his next move.

‘Please, Anders.’

Fenris knew, the soft, shushing display alone would never have been enough to convince Anders, but his plea had the intended impact. He wasn’t one to ask for things lightly, and Anders was aware of that quite well.

With a defeated sigh, the mage gave in. ‘You’re a sneaky bastard, I hope you know that.’

This time, his healing aura washed over himself, and Fenris watched with no little satisfaction as the cut on his throat closed and left unmarred skin in its wake. The deep gash on his forearm disappeared, too, even though the blood remained on the torn fabric as a memento of their battle.

‘There. Are you happy now?!’

Anders question should’ve been rhetoric, but now that he thought about it…yes, he was happy. More than that: all the pent up worry, the freezing panic he might come too late to save his love, fell off of him, leaving him elated despite the dull pain from his injury. Maybe he didn’t even have the right to call the mage his ‘love’ anymore even in the silence of his own mind, but right now, the word mingled with this light, fleeting feeling that let his soul soar high. A wide smile tugged at his lips and Fenris allowed it to stay, to spread.

Anders watched him in worry. ‘Maker, you must’ve lost a lot of blood,’ he said, and raised his palm, settling it fleetingly on Fenris’ forehead. ‘You are feverish.’

That would explain a lot, too, but Fenris refused to let his happiness be diminished like that. The hand returned and the white healing magic flooded his senses again.

‘Yes, I’m happy.’

Maybe those were the most uncharacteristically words he’d ever spoken, and his weakened state surely played a large role in that, but the fact remained: The words were finally, _finally_ , out in the open in all of their naked truth. Anders stared at him dumbfounded, mouth agape.

‘I thought I’d lost you for good. The thought alone…I…it ate at my very soul.’ Each word left Fenris’ mouth unchecked by now, but he couldn’t muster the energy to care. ‘I’ve never really noticed how much I care for you until then and there. It’s quite stupid, isn’t it? Only to be hit by an epiphany when something you should treasure beyond anything is threatened to be dragged away forever. I love you and haven’t had the courage to tell you just once in all the time, lousy coward that I am.’ The chuckle that pearled from his lips sounded hysteric to his own ears, but, Maker, every single syllable was nothing but true, true, true, and laughing at his own stupidity felt so right, so fitting.

When Fenris leveled his gaze, he recoiled instantly. Anders looked at him with disbelief written all over his features.

A slap to the face.

That was what it felt like.

But wouldn’t Anders have all the right in the world to doubt the sincerity of his words after all the ghastly things Fenris had thrown fair in his face back then? He wouldn’t believe himself, if he were in Anders’ shoes.

‘You’re…you’re talking in fever,’ the mage said, every line on his face speaking of silent torment.

Torment _he_ had caused.

Hadn’t he vowed to stay out of Anders’ life to spare him further pain and let him heal? Yet here he was again, dragging the man down the rabbit hole that was his life. Happiness was a fleeting thing, wasn’t it? He took a deep breath to fight the dread that spread through his bones, heavy as lead.

‘It’s too late, isn’t it,’ he heard himself say, voice gone raspy and raw. ‘It’s too late…but I’m happy you’re safe.’

The tiny smile that wormed its way onto Anders’ face must be the saddest thing Fenris had ever seen, and it clawed at his guts more than the open wound.

The mage raised his hand to card his fingers through his hair, untangling the sweaty tresses with patience and care. A thumb graced over his temple and magic roamed through Fenris’ tired body shutting down each nerve ending one by one. Sleep overcame him like a blanket that tucked him in.

 _‘Sometimes, love isn’t enough…,’_ were the last words Fenris’ ears picked up, before the darkness swallowed him whole.

 

***

 

Heavy.

Everything seemed to weigh a ton. Had he been lightheaded before, he was all body now: earthbound, anchored.

But, strangely enough, without pain.

Fenris opened his eyes even though the small automatism morphed into a task worthy of a titan. Anders’ warm eyes welcomed him and he let himself fall back against the familiar warmth engulfing him.

‘Shhh. Relax. You’re still weakened.’

The mage’s words washed over him like current and only then did he took notice of the arms that circled around him and held him steady. The urge to slip back into blissful sleep was prominent, but at the same time, he clung to his wake mind with all of his might. The taste of Elfroot lingered on his tongue, sweet and bitter, and he tried in vain to gulp it down.

The rim of a mug was pressed to his lips. ‘Here. Drink. Slowly.’

Fenris was grateful for the chopped off sentences, for his brain still struggled to find a home in this new reality. With the water that dripped down his throat, life came back to him gradually, like a flower that had been starving for way too long and found itself in the center of a downpour.

He was lying on his back with Anders pressing up against his uninjured side. With a clank, the mug was set aside and a large, bony hand settled over his chest again, radiating comfort and care. A thin, fresh scar ran long Anders’ forearm and that little detail let him settle in the present at once.

The raid. The riot. Their escape to Hawke’s. It all crashed down on him.

‘How long have I been out?’

‘Almost a day.’

Fenris rose on his elbows, only to be pushed down by gentle, yet insistent pressure to his sternum.

‘Maker’s breath, stay the fuck down. It took me five tries to close the wound and like seven health potions for you to get a skin color that doesn’t look like ash. Do me a favor and try not to sabotage my strategy to get you back onto your feet.’

‘You’re as mouthy as ever.’

‘Glad to be at your service.’

‘Idiot.’

‘I know, yet here I am.’ With that, Anders flopped down beside him again, curling up against his flank. ‘And you with me.’

‘No one said I’m not an idiot, too.’

‘A fault confessed is half redressed.’

 _Here we go again_ , Fenris thought, half in delight, half in annoyance, as their banter reminded him of days long gone. Was he happy back then? In hindsight, it appeared that way even though their constant antagonism had tired him out. He’d always silently enjoyed each clash with Anders, no matter how petty or trivial, how vicious or cutting. He’d loved him from the very start, hadn’t he? But Danarius’ implanted lies had fogged that fact very efficiently. He’d always been able to love; love wasn’t the issue he had to face – just as his little plant had summarized. Behind his demons, behind pride and rage hid something radiating more bad influence than those two ill-fated specters combined.

‘I’m an idiot, because I never learned how to really trust anyone. How to trust…you.’  Numbness was creeping into his limbs after this confession and he held his breath, steeling himself for the impending answer. He had faced Darkspawn and dragons, but not once had he been that afraid as he was right now.

Anders’ long fingers returned to play with his hair, caressing the side of his face with gentle strokes as he visibly searched for words.

Could there be a worse omen than a loudmouth like him being at a loss for words? Fenris’ heart sank.

‘That’s it,’ Anders finally said. ‘That’s why love isn’t enough. Without trust, it’s nothing but infatuation. Fleeting. Bound to wither. It lacks everything that makes it last.’

‘I want to learn…but I don’t know where to start…or how.’ The tears were audible in Fenris’ voice, wavering and uncertain. ‘I want to learn how to grow something, something that lasts.’

Anders’ honest laugh startled him. ‘But you’ve already started that, haven’t you? Think of your baby oak. It’s growing, isn’t it?’

‘It barely survived winter!’

‘But it made it. Maybe we have to survive winter, too.’

Fenris’ clung to the _‘we’_ with all of his might. It implicated that there was a spring to be had for both of them. In his mind, the little sapling was giggling and he took this as a good omen for it had guided him well in the past.

A thought bubbled up in his mind.

‘Are you happy now, Anders?’

The mage’s meandering fingers stilled as he pondered the question. ‘People only notice their happiness once it is gone…but, yes, I guess I am. I’m alive, so are you. That’s enough for now. I won’t try my luck and ask for more.’

‘But what if…,’ Fenris had to swallow the doubt that sat heavy in his throat, constricting his airflow. ‘What if I will never be able to learn to trust you?’

Anders’ tip of his tongue ghosted over his lips, before he gnawed at the bottom one, lost in thought, clearly battling his own demons. Time began to stretch itself thin, as Fenris waited for an answer, and he hated ever second of it.

‘Then…then I’ll try to wait. I…try,’ he said in the end, each word laden with a promise hard to keep, hard fought for.

The sudden realization hit Fenris, that there were possibly a thousand different ways of saying ‘I love you’, but the one that mattered most to him was Anders’ stuttered ‘I try to wait for you’. Patience wasn’t exactly his forte, so it made the mage’s confession worth so much more in comparison.

He was at a loss for words once more, his mind a whirling merry-go-round without a clear answer, when his body made the decision for him for the second time within a short span of time. Craning his neck, it didn’t take much to press his lips to Anders’, and he savored the needy gasp with which he was met. Patience wasn’t his best trait and his skills in kissing were still upgradeable, but what he wanted, _needed_ , to say was said mute and silent, but, oh so loudly at the very same time by the gawkish kiss he pressed to his mage’s lips.

Fenris was sure that things would’ve escalated to the more physical realms despite his injury, if it wouldn’t have been for the insistent knock to the door that made them part, short of breath.

On the threshold stood Bodahn Feddic, wringing his hands in dismay, a disgruntled Sebastian in tow.

‘I’m so sorry, Messeres, but I have to interrupt your…your…’

‘Reunification,’ the priest helped him out with lowered eyes, a blush spreading over his high cheekbones.

‘Ah, yes, sure.’ The dwarf wrung his hands in discomfort, but at least he was able to meet their stare. ’I’m sorry, but Serah Hawke is facing problems regarding your…status as an apostate, Serah Anders.’ Next to him, Sebastian heaved a deep sigh.

‘There are Templars at his door asking about your whereabouts and it’s hard to convince them to go on a search somewhere else, when it makes a whole lot of sense to search his place here and now,’ the archer said. He leveled Anders with a steely stare. ‘I don’t do this for you, but for Hawke. And Fenris.’ He hesitated for the fraction of a second, as if to second guess his convictions, but continued nonetheless. ‘Remember the tunnels that run below the Harimann estate? They span from Hawke’s and beyond, too. With a bit of luck, we should be able to reach your mansion through them, Fenris.’

‘Danarius’ mansion,’ Fenris couldn’t help but deadpan in response, rising to an upright position, while Bodahn was already busy gathering their belongings. Anders’ hand pressed to his back served as a gentle reminder that they were in this together.

‘Whatever.’ Sebastian’s bright blue eyes were searching his. ‘Are you strong enough to walk?’

‘Yes,’ he said with more strength in his voice than in his legs. Again, Anders backed him up with a simple rejuvenation spell. He had to close his eyes as the magic washed over him. Wasn’t he happy despite of all the trouble, despite all of the rising challenges he had to face? The answer sprang to his mind surprisingly simple and fast, laughing like his small oak and its childlike voice.

Yes, he was happy despite of it all.

 

 

 


	27. snail shell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you think you were able to escape the ultimative DA2 trope of Fenris learning to read and write, you're sorely mistaken. THIS BITCH LOVES THIS TROPE TO THE MOON AND BACK.

_He played you for a fool again. And you let him get away with it, gave in to his luring. He won’t change, he never does._

Anders buried his face in his hands with a weary groan. Justice’s scolding mantra had summoned a migraine that mmered right behind his eyes in pulsing waves. A simple spell would be enough to shoo it away, he knew for sure, but he tried to ignore them both instead: the headache _and_ Justice.

The quill had long slipped from his grasp and left a big, black blob on the draft of his manifesto. He stared at the spot in silent accusation, before he started to rewrite the aborted sentence out of pure defiance. It had to be close to morning by now; the crescent moon had shrunken in size and was to disappear soon. His gaze travelled over his makeshift desk to the hole in the roof that sported the canopy of stars, then down to the sleeping person that had huddled up under the covers with just his silver-white fringe poking out.

A smile tugged at his lips. Fenris had an uncannily resemblance with a snail. That didn’t sound very appealing or fitting at the first glance, but seeing him curl up and disappear in a mountain of covers and pillows every night made that association work out fine. The blankets served as his colorful shell and the fringe was his equivalent of antennae. Anders’ smile grew, his headache indeed forgotten. Fenris would have a nice temper tantrum if he ever was to discover Anders’ less than charming comparison, but, well, he didn’t need to know everything. This was his very own, very private amusement and he indulged in it to the fullest.

As if his musings had transferred to the sleeping man, the covers began to shift and a drowsy head appeared, followed by a naked torso that shone in the off-light of the faint moon. It never failed to amaze Anders how stunningly beautiful the elf was - even with bed-hair and pillow-wrinkles on his skin. Maybe especially then. He treasured this new familiarity between them for it felt strangely…domestic. It almost made him forget that he was still hiding, more than less under house arrest until things had smoothed out a bit.  

‘Why th’ fuck ‘re y’up already.’

Anders was sure that his silly smile had to split his face by now. ‘This isn’t a question, but an accusation.’

‘D’mn right, it is. Come back t’ bed.’

‘You were hogging the covers.’

‘Was _not_.’

It was highly amusing to watch Fenris look around, only to find himself in the center of all available bedding. The elf groaned in frustration, and Anders wasn’t able to hold back his laugh.

Strange, it was situations like this, when he felt the closest to him. They still had to reinstall whatever relationship status they had before – or maybe define a completely new one, but neither seemed to know _how_. Anders still wasn’t sure how to proceed after Fenris’ fever-fueled love confession in combination with the mess of their split up, but they continued to be drawn to each other on every level imaginable.

When the elf had offered him shelter and made room for him in his home, he’d accepted with more reluctance than he thought possible and vowed to keep a polite distance, only to find himself seeking out the other’s presence at any given chance.  Anders recalled the first evening when they both had dozed off in front of the fireplace. When they finally decided to head to bed, Fenris hesitated for a tiny moment, gazing over his shoulder and he just…followed. It had been as simple as that. Not a word was needed. He almost wished they would’ve slept together that night, but despite the undeniable pull, that amount of trust was still lacking, so they both buried their desire and contented themselves with the warmth they found in each other.

‘You’re working again. Why are you writing in the middle of the night?’ Fenris’ voice stopped his train of thought.

The elf flopped down onto the bench beside him, tightly wrapped up in one of the worn covers and Anders’ mental image sprang to his mind again: _the snail came for a visit_.

‘I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stop thinking, so I thought I might as well be productive,’ he said, fidgeting with the stem of his quill.

Fenris grabbed the wrinkled sheet of paper and stared at the black stain that graced the bottom part. ‘Let me guess: it isn’t going well.’

Anders heaved a sigh. ‘No, it isn’t. My mind is filled up to the brim with things I want to write, but sometimes, it feels as if I’m standing right in front of a heap of sparkling shards that I have to assemble again. And I have next to no idea of what I’m about to construct. Sometimes, I just start and the shards line up perfectly, one alongside the next…and other times, there’s this heap and it fucking _stays_ a heap. Tonight is one of the latter.’

‘It’s important to you. Isn’t it? Very important.’

‘Not the process of writing itself, but the outcome. I have to spread a message and writing is a means to an end.’

Fenris put the paper down again and flattened its nicked edges with care. ‘You should treasure it more. The writing itself I mean. It’s a gift.’

Anders had the distinctive feeling that he knew exactly where this was heading, but he didn’t dare to expose him. It was Fenris’ decision to spill his secrets, or keep them hidden, but the internal fight that the other went though was visible on his fine features. As much as Anders might wish to be worthy of that secret, it was up the other man whether he was ready to trust him with that. In the end, his lover made up his mind.

‘It’s a gift I never received.’

Fenris kept his gaze lowered in shame, tugging his cover closer around him as if the piece of checkered cotton would be able to ward off a scrutinizing gaze he fully expected, but that never came. Anders wanted to be angry at the whole, wide world because it made this extraordinary creature lower his head and wait for judgement. He took a new sheet of paper and placed it between them, quill at the ready.

‘Listen, Fenris. Your former master may rot in the deepest level of the Void for all I care, but there’s one thing he unintendedly choose very well.’

At that, the elf’s head snapped up with fire in his eyes. Maker, Anders loved and feared this gaze, both in equal measures; it sparked heat in his loins as much as it triggered the urge to run as fast as he could, so he hurried to continue. ‘He gave you a wonderful name. Strong and self-defined, therefore very becoming of you. And best of all: Easy to write.’

The feather wandered over the paper, every letter neatly separated, as Anders voiced each of them accordingly.

‘F E N R I S,’ he repeated and watched him, all giddy and excited.

Had the elf been sunken into the shell of his cover before, he tentatively nudged out again the moment Anders presented the quill for him to take. He held the delicate utensil in cramped fingers and Anders noticed his strategical error with a groan.

‘I’m sorry, my mistake.’ He dug through his drawing case and exchanged the quill with a simple pencil. ‘Take this; it will work way better, at least in the beginning. Let’s start anew, and I’ll show you how to hold the pen, ‘kay?’

Fenris nodded in concentration, but the fire from before had left sparks in his eyes that still made Anders swoon. ‘Go ahead,’ he said, and Anders repeated the procedure.

The sun had already risen over the horizon, sending her rays to bath the room in pastel light, when the pen fell from Fenris' grip. He’d filled several pages with his practices, but Anders saw his patience growing as thin as the scrawly letters he’d scratched over the paper.

‘Fasta vass! This will never turn into something useful,’ he spat in frustration, shedding the covers as he gestured wildly.

It was as if the snail had vanished into thin air to be replaced with the snarling beast instead. Anders took a moment to ponder the change. As adorable the snail in its shell might’ve appeared on the first glance, he preferred the wolf flashing its teeth at thousand times more, for it spoke of Fenris’ true self in capital letters. Literally. He was formed, molded to be the tiny snail that endured all that was hurled at it, but it was the wolf that hid beneath it all.

‘You don’t give yourself enough credit. You never do,’ he said, measuring Fenris with a gaze of whom he hoped showed all the adoration and faith he had in him. ‘You’re stronger than you think you are.’ Fenris had said the same to him after the almost-disaster in the sewers, and it felt right to direct those words back at him now.

Fenris raked a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t know what you see in me,’ he spat.

The veil of time parted before Anders’ eyes to present another picture of the past: they were his clinic and the late afternoon sun of summer danced through the blinds in long, fading rays. Fenris stood in front of him with his sword planted next to himself, naked and unearthly beautiful, speaking the very same words. And they reverberated through weeks and months to catch up with him again, here, now.

Back then, Fenris had been as physically close as he was right now, yet out of his reach nonetheless: the distant star on the horizon.

So much had changed since then, and only the direct comparison revealed the obvious shifts.

‘Once…once, you seemed to be the star out of my reach…’ Anders’ voice was tiny, barely there, but he had to keep on talking, for this was important, so very important. ‘I grasped and grasped at you, yet you always remained in the vastness of space. I tried to reach you for ages, and, somehow, I finally _did_.’

It didn’t matter that their shared history had more downsides than upsides; they’d found their way to each other, reached across a breach that seemed to be the deepest chasm.

‘You ask what I see in you? I see your worst. And your best,’ he continued. ‘And, one day, I hope you’ll see the same in me. Until then, I’ll wait.’

The snail shell pooled around Fenris’ waist, revealing the rosy scar tissue on his side, and there were goosebumps running over his skin from the chill morning air, but the sparks in his eyes that had been snuffed out by his frustration were rekindled by a new flame.

‘Show me,’ Fenris said. ‘Show me how to write _your_ name. The letter at the end is the same, isn’t it?’

Anders had expected many responses to his own confession, but seeing Fenris reaching out to him in such a way spoke volumes. He moved to grab the pencil, then halted in mid-motion. He picked up the cover’s hem and dragged the fabric back up over his lover’s shoulders. He had no desire to bring back the snail that had to hide in its shell, but he didn’t want his wolf to catch a cold either.

‘Yes. Yes, it is. And you’ll meet another letter you already know.’

He’d produced a fresh sheet by now and begun scribbling the new task. ‘You’ve met the ‘N’ before. Hi ‘N’, say hello to Fenris.’

‘Hello, ‘N’,’ the elf deadpanned in his most neutral voice, taking him off guard by the dry humor of the situation. There was no holding back, Anders roared with laughter. Once he’d managed to rein in himself, he shook his head, a smile still plastered on his face. It felt good to be able to laugh and smile again, at least for those tiny, treasured moments right now. Reality could come and drag his bony ass into the world’s problems another time. This was his, theirs.

‘And suddenly, I remember why I’ve loved you from the very start.’

The pen fell from Fenris’ grasp with a wooden clang and rolled over the table until it met a cup that stilled its momentum.

‘You did?’

Anders just nodded. ‘It had never been hard for me to develop a crush on someone, but not once had it hit me so hard and, well, permanent, as it had been with you. Andraste be my witness, even _Merrill_ noticed it quite early. I must’ve been such a love struck fool if even she had been able to see right through me.’

‘I…I didn’t realize…’ Fenris was at a loss for words, already fumbling with the cover. Before he would’ve been able to go into snail-mode again, Anders picked up the volatile pen.

‘I’d been very well aware of that back then, but it doesn’t matter now. Fenris, please welcome the first letter of the alphabet. It’s a vowel, and it’s awesome! ‘A’, this is Fenris. Fenris, this is the letter ‘A’.’ He wrote it with precision, then gazed up at him in expectation and offered the pencil for him to take.

Fenris rolled his eyes in defeat. ‘Hello ‘A’.’

‘That’s the spirit!’  

‘Don’t try my patience, mage.’

‘But, I do! You love me!’

 ‘One doesn’t necessarily have to have much in common with the other!’

‘I beg to differ!’

‘Okay, I yield.’ He snatched the pen from Anders’ hold and continued his exercise. The scribbled ‘A’ leaned heavily to the left, but it passed as an ‘A’ nonetheless.

‘See?’ Anders exclaimed in delight. ‘I told you, as you once have told me: You’re stronger than you think you are.’

Fenris huffed in a mix of amusement and annoyance. ‘ _We_ are stronger than we think we are.’ Then a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and he started to practice another line of ‘A’s that leaned in all directions, but the smile stayed. It filled the room with sunlight.

At least it felt like that to Anders.


	28. Cooking, Carta, Coterie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dear cupcakes, please bear in mind that the warning 'Graphic descriptions of violence' is there for a reason. In this case: gruesome death of a side-character. This chapter is a wild ride. Proceed with caution.

‘Maker’s balls, what are you doing, elf?!’

Fenris first stared at the burnt remains that still fizzled in the pan, then leveled Varric with an equally dour look.

‘Breakfast.’

The dwarf coughed with underlying drama and hurried to open the nearest window. ‘It’s way past noon and, furthermore, my well estimated guess is that cooking isn’t your forte.’

Poking at the black, crusty mass that should’ve become a pancake with his wooden spoon, Fenris admitted defeat and dropped the pan into the sink with a finality that had to serve as an answer for Varric.

‘And here I thought elves had a gene for cooking,’ the other commented in a dry voice.

_You are way too pretty for the kitchens, my little wolf._

Fenris flinched. He remembered those words well, for they were some of the earliest he was able to recall. Danarius’ words had been soft as velvet, as he took him by the hand to lead him to his bedroom instead.

Shaking the thought off with a shudder, Fenris snarled at the dwarf with more viciousness than necessary. ‘I’m no servant! Whatever you expect me to be, I doubt I will fit into the humble picture you have of my kind.’

Varric took a deep breath that was cut short due to the fumes still wafting through the room. ‘Listen, elf,’ he said as his coughing subsided. ‘If I’d stepped onto your toes with that comment, I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention to rile you up.’

Of course not. Rage and Pride had been leading Fenris’ tongue once more. If one of his personal demons was at the reign, it usually proved to be enough to handle, but if both of them decided to team up, he was bound to be at his worst. And Varric in particular was so very undeserving of that.

‘I’m sorry, I know you mean well,’ he said in reconciliation. ‘I’m just tired. We were up long before the break of dawn and kind of fell asleep when the sun had risen, and…’

Varric was staring at him with an eyebrow raised and a lewd smirk on his lips. Belatedly, Fenris noticed what else his words could imply, but it was too late for back-paddling. Maker damns it all, let the dwarf think what he wanted to, he wasn’t in the mood for explaining their early-morning-writing-etudes either.

‘…and whatever,’ he finished non-committedly. Thankfully Varric didn’t press any further.

‘I would say you are in need for a plan B. And before you ponder hiring me as a cook: if you’d managed to transform the kitchen into a smoke pit, I would’ve set it ablaze in flames completely.’

Now it was Fenris’ turn to grace him with a mischievous smile. ‘No fortune in the kitchen either?’

‘Nope. One of the reasons I live at the Hanged Man. The ‘surprise stew’ isn’t that bad compared with what I would produce.’

‘You could hire a servant. A household.’

‘Nah. Too much of a hassle. I like to keep my life simple.’

‘Varric, you are a running a spy agency and try to escape the Merchants Guild. Nothing in your life is simple.’

‘Kind of you to remind me of that. Oh, and you and your lot don’t make it any easier, but enough of that for now. How about a stroll to the Hightown market to hunt down some late breakfast?’

Fenris’ stomach grumbled in response and he was already glad to be able to leave the proof of his ill-fated attempt at cooking behind. ‘Deal. Let’s make a short trip as long as Anders is still asleep.’

Donning his sword, he hesitated on the threshold. He didn’t like the thought of leaving Anders behind on his own, but the mage was far from helpless and the role of the overprotective mother hen wasn’t made for him. It had been weeks since the raid and riot and Kirkwall had settled into something like normality again. Yet the uneasiness lingered and he had to shake himself to take the step out into the sun that flooded the Hightown estates.   

‘We won’t be gone for long, Broody,’ Varric said as if he’d known exactly where his thoughts had wandered off to. The dwarf took the lead to the stalls and shops, and Fenris followed him like shadow, lost in thought.

‘What’s Blondie’s favorite dish,’ Varric asked as he stood on tiptoes to inspect a wide array of filled dumplings that smelled heavenly.

Fenris stood frozen to the spot.

He had not the slightest idea.

For all the time they knew each other, had poked and prodded at any vulnerability, followed by all of their shared intimacy – Fenris still got no clue about what Anders liked on a mundane level. What did he really know about the man he came to care for so much? He wanted to know his favorite type of soap, his favorite color, the pair of socks he loved the most, yet those little gaps of knowledge revealed less the lacking attention on his side than the trust that was still to be installed between them. He tried so hard to open up to Anders and admitting his illiteracy this morning felt like a huge step in the right direction, yet Varric’s simple, unanswerable question took him off guard as it displayed the long road that still lay ahead of him.

The misery must’ve been written plainly in his face, because Varric patted his upper arm in solace, before he ordered tidbits of every dish on display. He shoved the boxes into Fenris’ hands with a wide smile.

‘Go and find out then. And Blondie is so starved right now that I bet it isn’t hard to track down the dish he enjoys most, don’t you think?’

Another topic Fenris had mulled over for the longest time: Anders and his status quo. The mage had this tendency to neglect himself whenever his stress level was high. In combination with his nature that gave and gave, the result was obvious: Fenris was able to count every single rib on his torso and the dark circles below his eyes were a permanent occurrence. If a hearty breakfast was able to change that state _and_ give him some insights about Anders’ preferences, Fenris was more than willing to give that a try.

‘You’re right, that’s a good start.’

‘Of course it is,’ the other said with a rumbling laugh. ‘And after all the mess in Darktown, I’ve gathered information that’s surprisingly encouraging. To be honest, that’s the main reason I came for a visit today.’

Fenris’ ears perked up, quite literally and Varric’s smile broadened at that.

‘Blondie seems to have friends in very high places as well as friends in very, very low ones.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning: Despite the Viscounts graceless demise, there are certain forces in the Keep that are working hard to limit the Templar’s access to Darktown, especially regarding the _charitable institutions_ there.’

‘You’re saying that someone tries to ban the Templars from laying hand on Anders and his clinic.’

‘Exactly. Most likely a certain someone who benefited quite a bit from Blondie’s kindheartedness and wants to keep it that way.’

 _Seneschal Bran and his unfortunate diseases._ Fenris didn’t dare to voice that thought aloud in the bright of day and in the middle of Hightown market on top of that, but it was obvious, so very obvious.

‘Let me guess, Anders’ other unseen protector is profiting as much from his coinless work as the first one does.’

Varric had bought a bag of fresh fruit in the meantime and nibbled at an apple. ‘Jackpot,’ he said between two bites. ‘I always knew that you’re a bright one, elf. Follow this thought through to the end, you’re right on track.’

Fenris’ mind was racing. ‘You said he has support amongst the lowest – and we both have already seen half of Darktown defending him, but the people there wouldn’t be able to ward off any Templars on the long run.’ He came to a sudden halt when an idea crossed his mind. ‘You need an organization, an operating structure to achieve something like that.’

‘I really like that brain of yours! Yes, exactly. And the first of those organizations came knocking at my door three days ago, asking in polite terms of the Darktown healer’s whereabouts, because their thugs continued to bleed out unnecessarily in the sewers without his selfless help.’

‘The Carta? The Carta came to you?’

‘For a late-afternoon tea, yes. They made it clear that they want Blondie back in Darktown, to do what he always does: helping everyone without question, without anything in return.’

‘And the Carta benefitted quite nicely from that.’

‘Yup. Given the fact that they got their thumb on the lyrium smuggle to the Gallows, their opinion on the clinic and its healer should matter to the Templars in return, if they want to uphold their dug fix in the near future. That had been visit number one. Number two sent a message last night.’ With that, he plucked a worn piece of paper from his pocket to wave it suggestively in the air without opening it. ‘The Coterie asks nicely for Anders to reinstall his clinic and is willing to provide the sufficient aid in regards of the Templars.’

Fenris was speechless for a long moment. ‘You are telling me, that _both_ Darktown organizations are willing to keep him safe if he only continues to treat their members as he did before?’

‘Exactly. They don’t give a rat’s ass about the whole Mage-Templar conflict, but without Blondie, Darktown is worse off than before – and even Carta and Coterie are bound to notice and react to that. Well, I guess sometimes you find help in unexpected places.’

‘Anders will not like that one bit.’

‘Sure, who would want to be pampered not only by one criminal club, but two? But both are powers who will keep him as save as possible. You can’t hover over him all the time, Broody. You both got your very own agenda running, don’t you?’

Fenris swallowed dry and nodded. ‘I know.’

‘Hey, and don’t forget that there’re two more forces standing on Anders’ side, and those are _slightly_ up to _very_ more attuned to common law: There’s Hawke, who will fight tooth and nail to keep him out of the line of fire, and don’t forget about Aveline either. She does her best to limit Meredith’s influence. Rumor has it that she’d thrown out a Templar Lieutenant some time ago who came posturing like he’d was supposed to own the Keep. Must’ve been quite a sight.’

Fenris could indeed imagine that quite well. Taking a deep breath, he felt liberated for the first time in ages. He wasn’t aware how much Anders’ status quo had worried him, but now that Varric had more or less arranged a protective watch over him, he could hug the whole world in gratitude. Hurrying his steps, he wanted nothing more but head home to break the good news to his lover. The packed dishes in his hands only served to heighted his giddiness, and the dwarf had to run to keep up with his long strides.

Funny, it also was a novelty that he thought of Danarius’ mansion as ‘home’, but how was the saying? Home is where the heart is. Those words had never felt real to him, had always been something he never was quite able to grasp until right now.  He had a home, because he had someone he treasured, no matter the place. Hurrying up the flight of stairs that led to the mansion, he rounded the corner to freeze in mid-motion.

The entrance door to the mansion stood wide open, glaring at him in foreboding.

‘Fuck,’ he heard Varric mutter at the same time as the food boxes hit the ground with a dull thud. He lunged into a wild sprint fueled by rising panic, the dwarf hot on his heels. The dimness of the entry room blinded him for a moment, but his elven eyes adjusted fast.

‘Anders?!’ His voice almost doubled over in fear as he scanned the room, readying himself for battle.

 The house remained eerily silent as he stepped into the main hall.

Anders sat at the base of the stairs, slumped in on himself, all body tension gone. Again, Fenris feet reacted faster than his brain ever could, carrying him to the man’s side in the blink of an eye. Panic was coursing through his veins as he reached out for his lover. He’d prepared for the worst, and relief flooded him when Anders looked up at him with teary eyes. Pulling him into a tight embrace, he clung to him as if his life would depend on it, and Anders let himself be held in return, crying into his shoulder silently.

Only then did Fenris notice the bundle the other cradled in his lap. The rags were of a deep red that hid the blood that slowly seeped onto the ground very well. Anders held onto it with cramped up fingers.

_Maker, have mercy._

‘Anders…Anders, what has happened? Please tell me,’ he spoke into the other’s mussed up hair, but the man only buried his face deeper in the crook of his neck as if to hide from the world with that simple gesture.

‘Sketch…they got Sketch. My fault, it’s all my fault. He had to die because of me,’ Anders sobbed. ‘My fault…’

It was Varric who approached them and untangled the mage’s fingers from the bloody lump to unfold its contents. Fenris had already steeled himself for horror and gore, but the lifeless eyes that stared up at him from a head severed let nausea roll through his body in a violet wave. He had to avert his gaze, hugging his lover closer.

‘That’s the fabric of a Templar standard,’ Varric said, and Fenris’ head snapped up to level him with a knowing stare.

‘A warning then.’

‘A warning that they know about Anders’ network and his whereabouts. They couldn’t get at him directly, but…’

‘…but slaughtered someone dear and vital to me and the mage underground,’ Anders finished, his voice rough from crying. He slowly untangled from Fenris’ hold and stared at the dead eyes. He closed them with a shaking hand, before he pulled his tunic over his head and gathered the remains of his friend in it.

Fenris and Varric both reeled back in shock when the bloodied Templar standard went up in a jet of flame until nothing was left but flecks of ashes that danced in the air.

Anders’ right hand was still smoking with blisters on it from casting magic without a focusing staff, but he didn’t seem to mind the pain. The tear tracks were still visible on his cheeks, but the gaze of grief and despair had been replaced by something that glistened like fire-hardened steel, changing his whole posture.

Fenris’ heart sank at the sudden realization: Vengeance was back.

 


	29. fire upon the world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, for the wait. Life has been happening. 
> 
> Strange chapter, but I reeeeally like it.

_THEY WILL PAY FOR THAT WE WILL MAKE THEM THE FLAMES WILL HAVE THEM UNTIL THEY ARE ALL ERADICATED FROM EXISTENCE WE WILL BRING FIRE UPON THE WORLD_

Anders’ hand hurt, but he couldn’t remember why, because Vengeance’s voice droned through his mind like hurricane, brushing aside everything else. A fire was burning inside of him, scorching and all-consuming, eating up both grief and terror, yet he felt cleansed at the very same time. Sketch’s severed head was a heavy weight he cradled against his bare belly, and it reminded him of what this whole scene really was down to its utter atrocity, its useless waste of life: an open declaration of war.

Vengeance’s voice had risen in volume, it screamed at him until the world skittered in endless loops with only a few words really discernable.

FIRE UPON THE WORLD FIRE TO THE WORLD WE WILL BRING FIRE

FIRE UPON THE WORLD

FIRE

Someone took his wrist. Battle-hardened fingers traced the back of his hand, trying to chase away the pain by drawing soothing circles on his dry skin. A wet rag was pressed to the burnt palm and Anders flinched back out of instinct.

Fenris gazed up at him, worry clearly written all across his face. The pressure to his injured hand increased a bit, but Anders welcomed the pain for it let him resettle in reality again. In his mind, Vengeance continued to shout at him, but with Fenris so close it was easier to focus on something other than the angry spirit he housed.

‘We…we can bury your friend.’ 

The elf’s hesitant words didn’t seem to make sense at first, because the heavy bundle in his left held no correlation to what he’d said. It was something that belonged to Anders, was part of him by now, but the blood that already began to seep through the fabric spoke another language. Sketch was no longer part of this world and he alone was to blame for that.

The wet rag was fasted around his hand with care, yet Fenris refused to let go of his hand. Never before had Anders been gladder for a tiny gesture of affection. It silenced Vengeance’s roar to a mumble that still whispered of fire and hell, but its cadence grew bearable.

‘There’s an atrium where we can lay your friend to rest. Would you like that?’

Anders considered reclining and taking Sketch to his clinic to bury him under his oak that knew no time, but wandering through Kirkwall with a severed head in the middle of the day was suicide even if he took the labyrinth of tunnels - especially if the Templars most likely watched every step he took. He didn’t trust his voice to function so he contented himself with a curt nod and followed his lover as he led the way to a barren garden that had yet to awake from its hibernal slumber.

It had escaped Anders’ notice when Varric had appeared to join their procession equipped with a spate and grim determination, but the dwarf took matters into his hands as he always did and started to dig a small grave. When all eyes focused on him, Anders knew that he was supposed to let go of Sketch’s remains, yet he couldn’t muster the will to do so.

‘There’s nothing left to do, Blondie. Don’t punish yourself for things you can’t change. There’s no use on clinging to what has already gone.’

Right. Sketch was gone, and he was still there, here, in this strange place he’d chosen for himself. He’d known of all the dangers Kirkwall held for the likes of him, yet he’d decided to stay and make himself a home here nonetheless. This was just one of the many consequences his decision entailed and he had to see it through to the bitter end. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t planned on this, had done his best to keep his network, his friends, as save as possible.

From now on, there was blood on his hands and no water would wash it away.

FIRE.

YOU NEEED FIRE FOR THAT.

BRING FIRE UPON THE WORLD.

He hated that Vengeance’s words made sense in their own, twisted way.

Anders had to close his eyes. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t drowning in the ocean, buried beneath the waves, but found himself encased by flames, like Andraste on her pyre. He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, yet only a whine escaped his throat, pathetic, thin and incomplete.

And like it had before with a hand to his burnt palm, a touch to the center of his back anchored him again. Fingers splayed over his skin and dragged him back with their subtle warmth. No hell fire, no wall of flames – just a living, caring touch that redirected his attention to the world around him again and reminded Vengeance that there existed other, softer versions of the very same element.

Suddenly, Anders was aware that he was crying once more, yet those tears seemed to provide the water that had the force to extinguish the inferno within, he knew for sure. All he had to do was let them fall.

And so he did.

He cried without holding back and the stream of tears made him let go of Sketch, too. The world was blurry, but Anders didn’t need to see to know what was happening, the spate biting into wet ground confirmation enough. He shivered and not a heartbeat later, Fenris’ body heat surrounded him as the elf pulled him into his arms again. There was no need for words, no need for anything but the familiar presence of his lover who sheltered him as best as he could.

He wasn’t able to recall how long they stood like this when a hesitant tap to his upper arm redirected his attention and Fenris led them inside again.

‘I know this might sound crazy given the circumstances, but you and your clinic are safe now, I, no, _we_ made sure of that.’

Indeed, Varric’s sentence made no sense, not in the slightest. There was no place that held any semblance of safety anymore, it never had in the first place, but now the imminent threat loomed over him closer than ever, breathing down his neck. He shook his head in disbelief.

‘If they can’t get me, they will get to you, they’ve just proven that,’ Anders said. ‘I’m a liability to all of you. A bit of information could get the Merchants guild come for you, Varric, and a similar hint to the slave hunters would…would…’ His voice wavered until he choked on his words. Thinking the unthinkable let tears well up again, but there was no use in denying: The Templars had the power to sell Fenris back to slavery without much effort.

‘They won’t get me.’

Anders envied the steadfastness and resolve in Fenris’ voice. He felt weak and tiny in comparison as he stood there in nothing but his worn trousers, crying his eyes out in misery. 

‘And they surely won’t get you, I promise,’ the elf finished with the same unwavering conviction.

‘Don’t underestimate our power and influence, Blondie,’ Varric interjected. ‘We are ‘Team Unstoppable’, as we’ve proven on many occasions, haven’t we? We just saved this fucking city, remember? We are a force of our own!’

Anders couldn’t fight the small smile that tugged at his lips and watched it being mirrored in the dwarf’s face.

‘Listen, Blondie. Let me do my work. I’ll give Hawke a fill-in, too, and we will righten what went wrong so horribly.’

Vengeance’s NO ONE HAS THE POWER TO DO THAT BUT YOU flashed through his mind, but Anders was able to smother it. 

To his surprise, Varric turned to Fenris next. ‘You…you take care of him in the meantime. I trust your sharp sword and sharper mind more than any hired guard I could place in front of the mansion. And you may want to consider leaving this place and head for Darktown instead. Our ‘friends’ will watch out for you there.’ Heaving a sigh, he took a moment to collect himself. ‘Andraste’s sweet bosom, what an epic mess.’ Without waiting for an answer, Varric turned and left, still mumbling expletives into his non-existent beard.

With the soft click of the front door closing, silence engulfed them and Anders became aware of many things at once: First, he was covered in blood and grime that already began to flake off of his skin. Second, his eyes were puffy from crying and his nose was running. Third, he was shivering like a leaf in a winter storm. He was the very picture of dismay, yet Fenris still held onto him.

As if he’d read his mind, he cupped Anders’ cheek tracing the tear tracks still visible with his thumb, then took his uninjured hand to wordlessly guide them to the bathroom where he filled the tub. Once the runes had heated the water, Anders slid into it with sigh of relief and began scrubbing until his skin was red and raw.

THE BLOOD WILL REMAIN IT ALWAYS WILL FROM NOW ON

Anders swallowed dry, gazing at his hands. He submerged and scrubbed them over and over again, but Vengeance’s words held a truth he couldn’t banish.

He was tainted now.

‘Stop that, will you?’

Fenris’ hands on his stilled his frantic movements. He still wore his gauntlets along with the rest of his battle attire and the dark steel contrasted his own inflamed skin so very nicely. He stared down at him in concern and meeting his eyes reminded Anders of something he’d forgotten for quite some time: His green beyond was gazing right into the depths of his soul, spreading the old yearning for freedom and peace there, now more prominent than ever. Fenris made all the treasured memories mingle and gave them a home, a direction to follow.

Anders surged from the water taking his lover’s head in both of his hands gently to kiss him, full and deep. The other wanted to say something, but his words got lost in their joining. Fenris tasted of life, of everything that grew and bore fruit and he clung to him with every fiber of his being. Water sloshed over the tub’s brim when he climbed out of it in a graceless stagger, never ceasing the hold he had on his lover.

When they came up for air, Fenris took half a step back, breathing heavy. ‘Wait, Anders…wait. You’re clearly troubled. Are you sure you want this?’ Doubt set his face in deep shadows. ‘I mean, right here, right now?’

Anders thought about piety, about appropriateness and sent them both to the Void in the blink of an eye. He was alive because someone had died for him, so he would do him honor by indulging in life to the fullest. As contradicting as that might appear on the first glance, to him it made a whole lot of sense and felt right, so utterly right.

He knew, he didn’t look very appealing at the moment, all wet and red, but the gleaming spark he saw in Fenris’ gaze confirmed the other’s desire for him despite his sodden state.

In his mind, Vengeance remained blissfully silent for once.

‘Right here, right now. Yes.’ Bridging the gap between them, Anders searched for Fenris’ warmth again and was not disappointed when the other’s arm encircled him to roam over the expanse of his back. Had Anders dreaded the touch of his armored hands before, he accepted them as part of his lover now, even leant into their sharp hold eagerly. They heightened the contrast between them even more, accentuating his nakedness, his neediness.

Fenris hesitated for another moment, before he gave in and allowed his hands to wander lower, cupping Anders’ ass in possession and pressed him flush to his own groin.

‘How?’ The elf’s voice was already rough, a low growl. ‘How do you want this to go?’

Anders would’ve preferred to think about nothing at all, for all rational thought had long fled his mind to make room for this lust for life, so Fenris’ question took him off guard for a moment. A cheesy _‘Make me forget’_ sat at the tip of his tongue, but it would most likely worry his lover further and wasn’t a proper answer to his question on top of that.

The last time, their coupling had been hard and intense, and a part of him wanted nothing more than to bend over the bathtub and present himself to be taken from behind again, but the need for more closeness, for more intimacy was overbearing. Furthermore: Fenris looked damn gorgeous in his armor, all hot and bothered, and he planned on enjoying that sight for a little while, so he softly urged his lover to lounge on the bench next to the tub before he crouched in close, settling on his lap with a wicked smile dancing around his lips. Their height difference was more obvious like that, but added a certain spice to the game they were about to play.

‘Let me ride you. Like that. In your armor.’

Anders watched his lover’s elven eyes first widen, then darken at those words and took that as a sure sign of approval. Fenris’ hand surged up to tangle in his hair and he was pulled down into a harsh kiss. Anders might tower above him, but there was no mistaking who was in control of the situation and held the reins.

‘Maker. You will be the death of me,’ the elf whispered against his lips between nibs and playful bites.

‘Not if I can prevent it.’

Before the other had any chance to spiral down into a bout of worry, Anders started to grind their hips together, coaxing the first moan from his lover’s lips. Maybe he should’ve been embarrassed that he was already half-hard from that little bit of friction, but being intimate with Fenris always proved to excite him in just a few moments. Well, at least the elf didn’t lag behind in that regard, if the growing bulge in his leggings was an indication.

The grip to his buttocks tightened and Anders gasped as one armored finger graced over his hole fleetingly.  

‘Prepare yourself.’

The two words settled in Anders’ stomach hot and heavy, spreading a desire that pooled between his legs and ran up his spine to leave gooseflesh in its wake. They weren’t a command per se, but Anders decided to regard them as one as he reached around to summon his dirty, little spell that served to make sex so much easier for him, for them.

Fenris watched him intently once he began to finger himself, never ceasing eye contact. ‘You’re hot like this, you know,’ he said as his gauntlets tangled in Anders’ hair once more, angling his head up to bear his throat. Anders already felt the sharp bite before the teeth scraped over his taut skin and a strangled cry full of barely held back desire escaped him. His position was awkward, half straddling his lover, half kneeling above him with one arm busy working himself open, but Anders was beyond caring right now.

Adding another digit, he slipped in deeper, clawing into Fenris’ shoulder with his left to anchor himself. The elf wasn’t able to see the movement between his cheeks, but he remained attentive to every gasp, every sigh and let his own hands roam over the expanse of Anders’ back and behind.

‘Like that. Keep going. Spread yourself for me.’

Anders fondly remembered Fenris’ dirty talk back then and it surely didn’t miss its effect on him right now, as his length hung between his legs hard and heavy, already smearing fluids onto the dark armor below him. With a shuddering exhale, he added a third finger that had his back bowing in tension.

‘Yes, like that. You need it, don’t you?’

Anders’ would’ve loved to answer, to scream from the bottom of his lungs, that, yes, he definitely needed that more than anything else in the world, but his breath got stuck in this throat. Instead, his hold to Fenris grew tighter and the leather beneath his fingers creaked in protest, yet his lover remained unflinching.

‘You’re almost ready, aren’t you?’ The breathlessness in Fenris’ voice gave away his own excitement and Anders thanked the Maker that he wasn’t the only one that had gone silly and stupid over that basic need for sex.

‘’m ready.’

There was no use for eloquence when scorching heat threatened to set flame to his very being. He needed Fenris, nothing less, nothing more, the world narrowing down to the single being that held him so firmly.

His whispered ‘take me’ got lost over the hands that maneuvered his hips down. It had escaped Anders’ notice when Fenris had worked his cock out of his clothes, but thanked the Maker for that skill as he descended on the erection that met him, hot and waiting. The tips of the gauntlets pressed into Anders flesh when they held him open so he could sink down with a groan. The stretch was exquisite, like a high wire under full pressure, and Anders savored and dreaded the slow slide down, all in one, but he continued on and on.

It was Fenris’ raw moan that fished him back, made room in his mind for the fact that he wasn’t the only one in this mad race. The length in him felt heavy, all-consuming and he opened up for him, but he must have pretty much the same effect on his lover, too: Fenris had his eyes screwed shut, breathing hard through his nose in uneven drags.

When the elf’s arms finally came up all around him, Anders began his dance up and down, in his very own choreography, his own set pace. His hips settled in a rhythm his lover couldn’t help, but _follow_ , and that small achievement drew a smile on his lips. It didn’t matter that Fenris took hold of his hair at the base of his nape, or his hand that scratched angry red lines into his skin where back met hips. Anders was dimly aware that he was moaning unabashedly along his frantic moventents, but he allowed himself to float and took what was offered to him without restraints.

Heat coursed through every vein of his body, yet Vengeance’s droning ‘fire upon the world’ remained forgotten like the ugly half-truth of a passing daydream. Instead, he let himself be consumed by the most fundamental act imaginable. Fenris was so very right about one thing: He needed this, needed it badly, so he screamed his own truth out to the world for all to hear.

Whiteness exploded behind his eyelids, setting the world off its hinges. He felt Fenris jerk beneath him, spreading heat throughout him and his own body responded in kind. He shivered and shook as pleasure flooded his senses.

This was it, wasn’t it? The point where everything began. Everything that tasted of life, of growing, of bearing fruit. Fenris and his green beyond, all mashed up to form a utopia he clung to with bitter desperation.

Vengeance laughed in the back of his mind, yet Fenris pulled him in closer, engulfing him with care and caress.

Another laugh joined the choir in his mind: the frail giggle of the small oak that knew no time – and Anders was reminded that fire had so many, different natures, from nurturing to devastating.

It was his to choose ultimately.

 

 


	30. crusades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cupcakes, I'm well aware that the term 'crusade' doesn't really fit into Thedas and its religion, but it carries the message that's discernable to us earthians, so please bear with it as this chapter's main trope. Maybe I'm doing this trope thing too excessively, but whatever. 
> 
> Enjoy a chapter full of...talk?

Despite his endless exercises, the feather’s tip still scratched over the paper rather undignified and Fenris frowned upon his lack in progress. His fingers began to cramp again so he tried to loosen his grip a bit only to leave a large blob of ink on the pristine surface. Readjusting the writing utensils he was balancing on his lap only made the black drop slide down faster. Maybe it had been an ill-fated project to do his lessons sitting cross-legged in Anders’ garden, but the spring sun had lured him out to take a seat under the majestic oak.

‘Fasta vass…’ He spat and glared at the inkblot in accusation, but it stared right back at him unimpressed.

A grunt to his left let him chuckle softly: Anders was asleep in broad daylight, mumbling something undiscernible while snuggling closer. Peaceful moments like this one were a rare treat nowadays and Fenris came to cherish them even more.

It didn’t matter that Anders disappeared each and every night to reestablish his network – or whatever else he was up about, as long as they had these moments of shared tranquility, this closeness. Fenris didn’t dare to ask for details of his lover’s nightly quests for it was the very topic they still disagreed upon fundamentally. They both silently came to an understanding that it was not to be spoken of for the sake of their still frail relationship, but, sometimes, Fenris wondered whether this attitude was a mistake they would have to pay for dearly in the future. If there was a future to be had in that doomed city of theirs.

In the end, it was his lover’s crusade.

Tightening his hold onto the quill, Fenris started his sentence anew. He was on a crusade of his own, one his lover would most like not approve of much, because it brought him in contact with everything he’d fled from and left behind. His eyes wandered over Anders’ sleeping form until they came to rest upon the hand lazily splayed over his belly. On his wrist the charm of the Tevinter chantry still gleamed like a bad omen, even if Fenris was well aware of how much that little trinket meant to his mage. To Anders, Tevinter was a symbol of freedom. But to him…

The quill frayed under pressure and Fenris stared at another inkblot plus the ruined feather tip.

To him, Tevinter meant past and pain – two aspects he continuously tried to let go of, only to have them coming back for him over and over again. It was the first time he sought them out on his own, out of his own free will. Maybe this was nothing but a colossal mistake, a mistake like the search for his brand’s origins, yet something deep within told him that he had to try, try for tying’s sake, if nothing else.

A lump in his throat was constricting his airflow and he had the feeling of having to swallow down half of Sundermount before he was able to take in a liberating breath again. Anders was murmuring in his sleep once more, something that sounded suspiciously like his name, and Fenris had to smile despite his dark thoughts. His right ghosted over his lover’s cheek before he took a new sheet of paper and sharpened his quill again.

_You have to try in order to make peace with your past._

Fenris head snapped up. The oak’s voice had a different cadence than his little sapling, yet it appeared to be the very same in the most conflicting way. It was the first time Fenris was able to hear it loud and clear, even though he knew for certain that it had always been addressing him before – he just wasn’t capable of discerning its frequency, its message until now. Fenris wasn’t sure what changed that fact, but he decided to take it as a blessing for the oak and its offspring proved to help him out in his darkest times.

‘I could ask in my greatest enemy,’ he whispered not to rouse the sleeping man beside him. ‘Invite him with arms wide open.’

_That might be. But look around you, child of the Green. You are no longer alone._

Joy flooded Fenris, golden and bright. No, indeed, he was no longer alone. He had his lover, his friends, a place he called home. He was more ready to face his past than ever before in his life. He needed to take that one, final step forwards in order to never have to look back again.

This time, his stumbling exercises morphed into something he alone would’ve never been able to achieve so early in his attempts in writing, but the oak helped him along in its indescribable ways: the feather flew over the paper, swift and fluid, as each word appeared on the surface in dark-blue contrast. ‘Dear sister,’ it read, ’you might have forgotten about me as I have forgotten about you for the longest time, but word reached me that you are alive and well and that fills me with a gratefulness I can hardly describe.’

The quill hovered in mid-air as Fenris hesitated about the wording of the next sentence. Speaking his heart and soul had never been easy for him and writing about it didn’t make it any easier.

_Be honest. Be you._

Fenris sighed. Platitudes coming from an enchanted tree, yet they were so true they hurt. The quill picked up his former pace again. ‘I’m not even sure if digging up that part of our past will do us any good, but it is a need on my side I feel almost physically. You are what is left of our family – as am I in return to you. If you would be willing to meet me in Kirkwall, I would cover your expenses to get you here. I’m well aware that such a message after so many years must alienate you and I can only beg you to give my proposal some thought and a chance. I will be waiting for your answer. Yours,…’

Again, the feather stopped all of a sudden, this time trembling slightly as whatever magic made him write down those words vanished to where it had come from.

‘I can’t even remember my given name,’ Fenris said aloud as if the tree would deliver the answer to that riddle, too. Instead a rustle beside him made him flinch and Anders rose to a half-sitting position drawing a hand through his sleep-tousled hair while yawing loudly.

‘You decided to stick with ‘Fenris’ despite of all, remember?’

His first instinct was to hide the letter for it gave away so much about himself and his hand had already reached out to cover the lines, when Fenris reined in that reflex. No, this was his lover. If he didn’t trust him with what moved his heart and soul then he was unworthy of this man.

‘She doesn’t know me under that name.’

‘She?’

Anders voice was still rough from sleep when he craned his neck to get a glimpse of the letter lying in Fenris’ lap. His eyes only skidded over the first few words before he turned to face him again.

‘Your…your sister? And, maker’s balls, did _you_ write this?’

Above them, the canopy of leaves rustled like pearling laughter and they both raised their heads to stare at the tree towering above them.

‘Oh, I see,’ Anders said with a smile. ‘You had a little bit of support from our strange friend. Sometimes I wonder what else it is capable of.’

Anger and pride mingled within Fenris once more, but where they broke free before to wreak havoc, they only left a bitter aftertaste on his tongue now. He wanted to achieve this skill in literacy on his own and he would work his darndest towards that for sure, yet the fact that he needed the support of a magical being to reach his goal now ate at him nonetheless.

With a frustrated groan, he neatly folded the letter. ‘I just made out her whereabouts and _had_ to get in contact with her somehow. The oak…I don’t really know…it channeled that desire, spurred me on.’ Halting his gush of words, Fenris searched his lover’s gaze. ‘I…I need to know, Anders. About my past, I mean. Who I was. I just need to.’

Anders had come up to a sitting position in the meantime, eyes full of worry. ‘You are well aware that this could be a trap set up by Danarius himself, aren’t you?’

Fenris merely nodded.

‘Is it all worth the risk? Hadriana hadn’t informed you about your sister out of the goodness of her heart. This could easily be your downfall, Fenris. Wouldn’t it be better to leave the past be and face the future?’ His last words were barely audible, half-swallowed by the swooshing foliage above them.

Fenris heard them nonetheless and the age-old anger he was so awfully familiar with returned from one moment to the next. His writing utensils slipped from his lap, skittering onto the ground as he turned to fully face the other.

‘How dare you. How dare you to dismiss my want to get back what was taken from me as something that could be put aside like an idle thought?! Why should I step back from what is dear to me for the sake of safety? Could _you_ forget the past and face a future, well knowing that a certain, important part of yourself is missing?’ His words were doubling over in his agitation, yet he let them spill the way they wanted. ‘Missing like a puzzle piece to full picture, leaving nothing but a gaping hole in your middle?’

Anders’ face fell and Fenris watched as a myriad of different emotions displayed themselves in every line, every crease. His soft eyes shone with redemption when he finally could muster the strength to answer.

‘I never dismissed anything you held dear; I’m just worried that you could be taken away to Tevinter again, or worse - ’

‘Anders, I can’t let bygones be bygones,’ he interjected. ‘I’m deeply worried about you and your own crusade that makes you leave every night to Maker knows where, but I grant you that because it means more than anything to you. Maybe even more than what I must mean to you.’ He ignored the tears clearly present in the wavering of his voice and continued. ‘I expect you to grant me my own crusade, even if it brings me nothing but misery. This is important to me.’

Strangely enough, Fenris’ anger had subsided throughout his speech, leaving him drained and sore. Sagging back against the trunk of the tree, he picked up his abandoned letter to place it in his lap again gently.

With a mirthless chuckle, Anders leant against his side. ‘We are horribly alike in some regards, aren’t we? That’s why we are such a fabulous couple.’

Fenris just huffed a laugh through his nose, meeting his lover’s eyes again.

‘I know we agreed on certain terms early in our relationship, like acknowledging the constant threat dangling over both of our lovely heads,’ Anders said. ‘Neither freedom nor safety won’t ever be truly ours, given the fact that we follow our very own agendas on top of said threat. For a moment, I forgot about that, and for that mistake I’m deeply sorry. But one mistake is on your side, too.’

Anders’ hand was calloused and battle-worn when it turned Fenris’ head up and closer until he bridged the last, tiny gap to complete the kiss.

Usually, there was always an underlying urgency in their intimacies, not matter the act – maybe exactly due to the menace always surrounding them, but right now, it was lacking that aspect fundamentally. There was no pressure, no dire need that had to be sated, no statement to be made. They shared this little connection to the fullest, almost timeless. Fenris was already declined to blame that on the oak and his messing with the flow of time, but Anders breaking the kiss brought him back to their discussion beforehand.

‘My mistake?’ The question hung between them for a moment, as if Anders was waiting for him to find the answer on his own.

‘Never question my love for you.’ There was an air of severity around his lover that startled him and only the hand still cupping the side of his face provided some comfort. ‘Go on your own crusade, if that’s what you desire and reach out for me if you ever need me,’ Anders continued, ‘but always keep in mind, that I love you.’

The second kiss proved to be as timeless as the first, spreading warmth through every vein of his body.

Yet a nasty voice in the back of his mind noted that he never doubted Anders love for him, but questioned his place in the hierarchy of his agendas. He let that detail drop for the sake of one of those sweet moments he cherished so much, even though the letter in his lap seemed to weigh more than it probably should.

Above them, the old oak remained eerily silent, and Fenris had no idea why this bothered him so much.

 

 

 

 


	31. Andraste's smile

The moon was barely visible through the thick layers of clouds, yet a few stray rays were enough to illuminate the place that lay below the chantry’s looming bulk. Vengeance’s droning voice ceased its constant chant for a moment and Anders took a deep breath, stepping out of the stairway that connected Lowtown with the more prestigious parts of the city. It was as if the moon lured out his darker spirit to send them both on a fruitless mission almost every night. Or maybe it was the fact that at nighttime, Anders was no longer able to block out the words that screamed in his head.

Coming to a halt in front of the statue that overshadowed large parts of the area, Anders craned his neck to look at its serene face.

Andraste seemed to look right through him.

There had been times when her benediction would’ve really meant something to him, but those were long gone, replaced with a contempt that was more directed at the institution than the historical figure and her tragic story.

Vengeance’s FIRE UPON THE WORLD rang through the marrow of his bones again, amplified through the statue’s hollow stare and Anders’ hold to his staff tightened to keep him anchored.  He tried his hardest to will his feet in direction of his true aim, yearned to fall beside his lover’s sleeping form, just barely out of reach, up another flight of stairs and then a turn to the left, yet he stayed glued to the point, glaring up at the giant bronze symbol right in front of him.

For how many weeks was he trying to reassemble his underground organization? Seven? Ten? He wasn’t able to recall anymore. Every night, he worked to get a hold of other mages who thought alike, only to be met by a wall of silence and fear, or blank denying and a fatalism that made his skin crawl. His contacts to the Gallows were severed and the fortress had morphed back to what it originally was meant to be: A prison without escape.

He wanted to hurl accusations right into Andraste’s unmoving face. How was she able to tolerate such suffering, so many atrocities committed in her holy name? Did she even care, now that she sat at the Maker’s side? She must’ve ceased to feel anything, abandoned the world as God had done before and no Chant of Light would be able to change that for they were both deaf to their creature’s cries.

That realization sat heavy in Anders’ throat and no swallowing made it disappear. For all of his pent up rage against the Templars, he was staring down the real enemy right now and it saddened him that he’d spend so many years of his life fighting the wrong demons. The Order was his most direct opponent, yet the real threat to freedom lurked in the shadows behind them, larger than life.

Anders was sure that a cruel smile hushed across Andraste’s fine features and Vengeance roar rang in his ears anew.

FIRE! HEAR ME? FIRE TO BRING FEEDOM FIRE TO THE WORLD FIRE IS FREEDOM

His feet wanted to ascent the stairs that lead to Fenris’ mansion and a part of him screamed in rising crescendo that he should leave this war to others and head back to the one person he loved above everything else.

Yet…

Vengeance’s voice hollered louder. Anders covered his ears in an attempt to shield himself from the onslaught, but the gesture proved to be in vain as the words raced through his mind in overlapping circles, screaming him down until he was no longer able to make out his own consciousness.

He was going mad, that had to be it. He was nothing more but a raving lunatic right now.

In the end, he stumbled down the flight of stairs he had just came up a few minutes ago, descending deeper and lower into the city’s bowels until he found himself in front of a worn, wooden door that looked vaguely familiar.

The moment he opened it, all voices in his mind fell silent. Taken aback by the sudden silence, he hesitated on the threshold for a moment.

‘Oh look, we’ve got an early morning customer! Thaddeus, bid him welcome, would you? We haven’t seen him for quite a while! Come in, my dear! How’s the Champion doin’? And that silent elf with the lyrium marks all over his body?’

Anders would’ve recognized that full baritone everywhere, yet he wondered why he’d found his way to the Black Emporium of all places. His boots clanked louder than intended as he made it to the translucent repository Xenon inhabited. As interesting as the shop might be, he rarely visited for one reason specifically: His lack of funds. Usually it had been Hawke who threw around money here, buying trinkets and equipment for himself as well for his gang. The very staff strapped to his back came from the shop owner’s mysterious collection and Hawke had been willing to pay an insane sum for it.

‘Are you okay, mage?’ Xenon’s question dragged him back to reality.

‘No, I guess I’m not.’ His own voice was raspy, raw.

‘I thought so. That’s why I ordered your spirits to wait at the door.’

Anders’ head snapped up, eyeing the lump of dried flesh in a mix of concern and relief.

‘Worry not, they aren’t banished, but I would like to have your undivided attention when I’m about to make a deal with you.’

‘I can’t offer you coin…and, furthermore, you have nothing that I might want.’

Xenon’s high-pitched laughter reverberated off the walls of the cave. ‘Dear healer, I beg to differ. I have exactly what you are looking for! You did come here for a reason, didn’t you?’

Anders swallowed dry. He couldn’t recall what brought him here exactly, but the moment Xenon’s boy opened a chest to display recipes of all kind, his eyes stayed fixed upon one specific.

‘Ah, that one is quite a specialty. Immensely effective. With a wide area of impact. Its ingredients are hard to come by though. It is designed to bring fire to the world. Or more precisely: Upon it. For enlightenment or destruction, or maybe both: it’s up to its user’s wishes.’

A shiver ran down Anders’ spine when he heard Vengeance’s mantra out of the mouth of this ancient-old creature. The very same smile that formerly had graced Andraste’s face with blank indifference was now playing around Xenon’s thin lips and he took a step back out of instinct.

‘I…I have nothing I could offer you,’ he said in defense.

The smile stayed and even broadened when the antiquarian answered. ‘Again, you are mistaken, my friend. See, I’m a collector of sorts. Of very special sorts. Fine specimens, rare and treasured.  Such as you.’

Another step back brought Anders closer to the Mirror of Transformation, and he flinched when his eyes fell upon the image that stared back at him. First he saw himself right after his year of solitude: gaunt and frail, aged before his time, yet strangely unbroken. Then there was a picture of him wearing the Warden’s battlemage armor, proud and cocky, his golden earring gleaming softly. And the images shifted and skimmed through the years until they came to a halt at his present form: haunted and hollow, yet with the very same determination still lingering in the depths of his eyes that never truly left him. This time, the Charm of the Tevinter Chantry blinked in the torchlight of the cave.

‘Dear healer, you’ve been a whole lot of things throughout your life and it is of a certain interest to me to get a sample of each. Especially you being a Warden is of importance to me due to the fact that the blood of an Archdemon is so hard to come by. Add to that that your possession of a spirit from the Fade without turning you to an abomination instantly is of something I have rarely heard of. To make a long story short: I give you what you came for in exchange of a vial of your blood now and your heart upon your death later. For research purposes, of course.’

‘A phylactery? You want to create a phylactery?’ And old fear seeped into Anders’ bones, making him skittish.

‘Not exactly. As I pointed out before, I’m not interested in your blood per se, but more so in the few drops of Archdemon essence still coursing through your bloodstream. I aim to distillate that. Somehow.’ Xenon regarded him with some kind of pity. ‘And once you’ll meet your end, I will find ways to get hold of your heart. You Wardens have this tendency not to grow old.’

Now it was Anders’ turn to heave a cruel laugh. ‘You are well aware that my kind descents into the Deep Roads for their final fight, don’t you?’

The golem at the entry craned his thick neck and stretched its arms in answer. ‘Believe me, I have resources to get there, don’t I, Thaddeus?!’

‘I’m sure I’ll regret this question immediately,’ Anders interjected. ‘But why don’t you do away with me right here and now. You could keep your recipe and have all the body parts you want.’

This time, Xenon’s laugh bordered on an evil snicker. ‘Mage, I’m an antiquarian, not a murderer. And, furthermore, there are certain…energies…that shield you and your mission. I know my place in the universe, and you will know yours soon, too. Now, if you would be inclined to fill this vial with your blood? You’re a healer, you know how.’

The urge to ask about those ‘energies’ welled up in Anders, yet he squashed it down and cast the spell that transferred his blood to the little flask in front of him, sealing the deal. The urchin child handed him the parchment with the recipe in exchange. The letters stared back at him in foreboding, so he folded the paper and stowed it in his side pouch.

When he turned to leave, the antiquarian’s voice called him back once more. ‘One thing! Just one, more thing I’ve forgotten! Open the crate to your right. You’ll find a personal gift from me to you. I have no use for it anymore, but it will serve you well.’

Anders half expected to find some rusty armor or a worn enchanted belt – the usual giveaways Xenon dished out to keep his clientele happy. Instead, the iridescent structure of raven feathers neatly sewn to a coat made their appearance. The fabric was soft to the touch and its heaviness spoke of good quality. What startled him though was the fact that design-wise it was very close to his own custom armor, only with black as the dominant color. His hand stroked over the long plumage in appreciation.

Had Xenon been a mage, too? Ages ago?

When Anders looked back over his shoulder, the creature wore Andraste’s indifferent smile again, unreadable and distant. The time for answers and deals was most likely over, so Anders mumbled his thanks, bundled his new armor up under his arm and took his leave. He fully expected to be met with the screaming maelstrom he had to leave at the entry door, but his spirit resettled into his mind content and blissfully silent.

With every step he took, the folded piece of paper in his pouch grew heavier and heavier. He opted to head to his clinic instead of going back to Hightown, but, damn, he missed Fenris. Right now, he wished for nothing more, but to sneak into bed to sleep his worries off next to his lover’s warm body.

This time, he didn’t dare to look at the yard in front of the Chantry, for he feared to see Xenon’s face in the statue’s bronze features. Instead, he hurried up the stairs to the noble district and the rising sun welcomed him home at the very same moment.

Crossing the entry hall, Anders made his way to the bedroom on tiptoes. Fenris was lying sprawled across the covers half-naked and snoring softly. Anders felt the first real smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

 Shedding his coat like a skin he’d grown out of, the token of destruction he’d just bought with blood and death fell to the floor along with it, forgotten, as Anders crouched in close to the sleeping man.

He was already close to be engulfed by sleep when he heard the little oaks jingling laugh. It sat at the windowsill and had grown immensely over the course of the last few weeks.

_It’s time._

Anders knew.

_Don’t look at her face again. Her smile will neither make you happy nor will it provide the answers you seek._

Anders nodded.

Yes, he knew. Somehow, he’d always known.

He also knew for certain, that he would never wear his old coat again. He knew what he wished for the recipe in his bag to achieve, and that knowledge frightened him to no end.

_Don’t be afraid. Hold him close. He’s your Green Beyond._

Anders had never been surer of anything else in his whole life and the arms encircling his love bore testimony to that.

No, he wouldn’t be afraid.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [uhm, hello](http://blood-and-pepper.tumblr.com/)


End file.
